


Well Hung Meat

by draylon



Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Game), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 05:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 54,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draylon/pseuds/draylon
Summary: The off-screen exploits of Ratbag, an Orc, and Talion, a human Ranger, from the video game 'Middle Earth: Shadow of Mordor'.  Please note that it contains some unacceptable and graphically-described, dubious non-consensual content.





	1. An Uruk will stab you in the front....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following filthy story is dedicated to cohobbitation (though I don’t know what cohobbitation would have to say about that).
> 
> The lovely Sauntervaguely and editedcopycat have both drawn some truly terrific artwork relating to this story, which you should go and have a look at immediately:
> 
> Sauntervaguely's is here:
> 
> http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/163028753870  
> http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/163347652465  
> http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/163310837665
> 
> And editedcopycat's is here:
> 
> https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/313805948672147457/330424688444440578/NOTSAFEFORWORK.jpg  
> https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/313805948672147457/335481668942954506/geez.jpeg
> 
> (with clickable links at the end of Chapters 1, 4, 6 and 9)  
> (See the end of the work for more notes.)

 

An Uruk will stab you in the front. Most likely the throat.

 _Much of the truth of that depends_ , Ratbag thought to himself, isolated thoughts flaring into being through his fading consciousness, on what the other fella’s finding to be stabbing you _with_.

Once again Ratbag found himself facing a spot of bother. And in his experience, these things had a tendency to always go the same way.

Ratbag would put a foot wrong.  And it might be over _anything,_ ranging from, say, him unsuccessfully attempting to set himself up as Warchief, to Ratbag, in his perpetually-famished state, having golloped down a portion of some other Uruk’s scran.  Whatever its nature his transgression, real or imagined, would soon be uncovered.  Then they – the other Orcs, would berate him, beat him, and then, likely as not, string him up from some conveniently-located gibbet, whipping-post or gantry.

And yes, occasionally it would occur to one or other of them to fuck him, while he was hanging helpless there.  Owing to his temperament and appearance, Ratbag could count few allies among the rest of the Orcish troops, which meant there never seemed to be anyone willing or available to cut him down or step in on his behalf at times like these; occasions on which for example, someone took it into their head to give him an unwanted fucking, so that was another thing that sometimes also happened.  But the point here was that afterwards, when whatever they were doing to him was finished, they’d leave him _alone_.  And then, sooner or later, Ratbag would somehow or other make his escape.

But that wasn’t happening this time.  Because this one – the one that had him?  This one was a _pervert_.

Ratbag knew that, and not just because he was such a keen observer of Orcish behaviour.  Admittedly, he’d come to be a connoisseur of the Orc and Uruk mind-set mainly in the hopes of avoiding fetching up on the wrong side of it, and although lately, that part hadn’t exactly been going according to plan, he did know on account of it that most of them possessed little by way of active cognitive abilities.  Not like Ratbag.  Those other fellas?  They’d not much going on upstairs. 

This one, and he was an ugly young meat-head Ratbag thought he recognized, name a’ Glob-dug, or Dug-glob, or some such – problem was that he had enough about him to be trying for some _finesse._

Glob-glob, or whatever his name was -  the _pervert_ \- had come with his cock jammed up Ratbag’s arse, finishing very quickly, the way they always did.  He’d pulled loose – as ever, it was an awful sickening feeling – leaving Ratbag floundering on knees and elbows, hands bound in front of him where Glob-dug had thrown him, down in the dirt.  Glob-dug picked him up, one-handed by his wrists, and hung him back on the hook on the whipping-post to which he’d originally been tied. 

So far so good.

The hitching point on the post was positioned so that most Mordor Uruks secured to it would have been able to easily stand with both feet planted flat on the ground.  Though Ratbag persisted in naming himself one - all available evidence to the contrary - he was much smaller than an average Uruk-hai.  With his sallow, greenish-yellow skin and wiry, stooping physique he was in looks as well as stature more like a Mountain Goblin than anything else.  He was not even as a tall as a Man and so he dangled, hanging from his wrists.

Since he was already in the air Ratbag brought both his feet up, aimed a hefty kick at Dug-Dug’s stomach and missed. 

Dug-Glob’s response was to punch him full-force in the gut.  He followed that up a swinging left-hook – one! Two!  And the worst thing was the fucker took his time to be _artful_ about it.  Sheen of sweat glistening off Glog-glog’s bald head, brow furrowed in concentration as he aimed his punches into Ratbag with exquisite precision – overloading on all that homoerotic machismo and malarkey. 

It made the smaller Uruk _sick_.

Dug-glob double-punched him another time.  Gave him one more set, just for luck.

While Ratbag was heaving and retching trying to get over _that_ Glob-dug yanked his trousers further down, well past Ratbag’s hips.  

This being the first indication Ratbag had had that Glob-dug was a pervert.  That he was planning to go off-script. 

Glob-dug circled behind the post, dragged Ratbag’s ankles back and tied them, with the whipping post between.  At the front that left Ratbag’s thighs splayed wide open, his privates dangling down naked, fully exposed.  The pervert reached round from behind and started…. _playing_ with him.      

He closed his other hand round Ratbag’s throat, forcing his head back against the whipping post.  Began throttling him, by steady increments tightening, then slightly loosening his grip.  He was obviously aiming for a spot erotic asphyxiation – that old chestnut! - but from Ratbag’s perspective, this sort of nonsense never did a thing.  Apart from making him start to lose consciousness, of course.  Which is where he was at the beginning of the story, when we came in.

One of the first things a person might notice on meeting Ratbag for the first time was that there were iron rings piercing his lip and eyebrow.  He had a conspicuous nose-ring, several ear-rings - and they were set in other parts of his body, too.

The pervert had been mystified when he found it.  When he put his hand on Ratbag’s privates and the metal rings studding his cock and his ball-sack kind-of went ‘clink’. 

“Woss all this shit?” he asked, astonished.

Ratbag didn’t bother to answer, on the grounds that it was obvious.

“Hurrr!  Kinky,” the pervert said.   

“Like you can talk,” Ratbag gasped, still winded from his recent throttling, not to mention the gut-punching that had preceded it.  “I don’t want any of this,” he snarled at Glob-dug.  “Know what you are?  You’re a nuffing but a fucking _pervert_!”

That only made Glob-dug laugh.  But unfortunately, now he was getting into it.  He started playing with the things Ratbag had in him.  Ratbag had to bite his lips so as not to cry out.  The hardware he was sporting between his legs made him terribly, acutely sensitive down there.

“But what’s all this shit _for_?” Glob-dug exclaimed.  “Done this yourself, ‘ave you?”

Ratbag was outraged.  Of course it wasn’t self-inflicted!   Another pervert, another fucking _pervert_ \- and wasn’t it just Ratbag’s luck to keep running into these characters – a different fucking pervert had deliberately done it to him.  Sometimes he’d used the rings in Ratbag’s stick to tie him down – other times - well.  One way or the other it was always for control.  Bastard had liked leading him around by those things.  A piece of meat on a fucking _leash_.

 The thought of being complicit in anything that other pervert had done made Ratbag’s blood boil.  “What would I want to go and do that for?” he demanded.  “You think anyone would – ever - want to do something like _this_ to themelves?”

Glob-dug shrugged.  His response was pragmatic.  “Why don’t c’her just take them out, then.”

It wasn’t as if Ratbag hadn’t already thought of that and tried.  It’d hurt him, but oh, how he’d tried.  “Ah, but I’m waiting on getting,” he explained, “a set a’ miniature pliers of ‘xactly the right size.  Gotta have the correct tools for the job, don’t yer?  An’ those things - they’re not standard-issue.  Means it's necessary to send off.” 

“Do yer.  Do yer really,” the other Orc said sceptically, bored with the topic already.  In want of something better to do he went back to playing with Ratbag’s privates. Ratbag couldn’t have said why on earth he wanted to do it, but for some reason the other fella was obviously trying to get a rise out of him. 

Way he was hauling Ratbag’s ‘bits’ about - no way that was happening!

Nothing _did_ happen, so at length Glob-dug got bored with that as well, and moved on to something different.  But instead of cutting his losses and leaving be, the cunting, fucking rapist only went and tried a different tack.

Ratbag yelped out in surprise and disgust as the rapist knelt down, cupped his hand round Ratbag’s buttock to shift him outwards from the post, then pushed two of his fingers straight up into Ratbag’s arsehole.  They went in easier than they should’ve and he probed with them, rolling and stroking Ratbag insistently on his insides.  Glob-dug didn’t know, but sometimes that was something that could make Ratbag -

A shiver of exquisite, shameful pleasure thrilled through him.  It was not at all wanted, and yet it felt – it felt –

It felt fucking _loathsome_!

“You bastard!” Ratbag howled struggling frantically.  “Stoppit!  Gerroff me!”

The bigger Uruk, however, wouldn’t stop.  He didn’t ‘gerroff’ as Ratbag had demanded.  Pushing Ratbag back against his post he held him in place by his narrow hips until Ratbag, through his struggles, had tired himself out.  Then he went back to his finger-fucking, vigorously pumping his thick digits in and out, and in and out of him.

They went through this rigmarole maybe two-three times, until Ratbag’s knob, reluctant as it was, was finally standing sort-of semi-erect.  

At that point Glob-dug dug a length of rawhide string from out his pocket.  Grinning at the exhausted Ratbag widely, he looped the cord twice round Ratbag’s ball-sack and yanked on it, to pull off the slack.  He tied the ends off tight, twisted round the base of the other Orc’s approximate erection.   Then he tucked the increasingly purple-hued mass of eye-wateringly swollen tissue back into Ratbag’ breeches, which he pulled back into position and belted securely round the smaller Uruk’s waist.  As a parting shot he patted Ratbag, almost fondly there.  The shock of the unexpected, agonizing sensation caused the smaller Uruk’s eyes to glaze over with unshed tears.  His breath was stolen from his lungs and he was barely able to stutter out a faint wind-broken, wheezing shriek.

“That’ll give you something to think on, won’t it?” Glob-dug said, stepping back to admire his handiwork and smirking with self-satisfaction.  “That’ll keep c’her good and hard for me.  Oh, an’ don’t I ‘ave plans for you!  Know what? I’ve some ‘special tools’ a’ my own hid in my kit that I’ve just been itchin’ to use.   Why don’t c’her have a think about it ‘till I get back, _Ratbag_ , ‘cos I’m _dyin’_ to try ‘em out on you.”   

Now, maybe it’s ironic or something, but them’s the last words he ever says, actually, because that’s when –

One thing Ratbag might not have had a chance to mention is there’s this half-undead, kind of resurrected, Tark Ranger bloke he knows from before.  Name of Talion.  And the Ranger, Talion he’s called, he’s got this – Ratbag wouldn’t call it a habit, really.  But sometimes – and it’s def’nitely been more than once – sometimes he shows up, just when things are looking their very blackest and then he –

Well then, sometimes he up and _rescues_ Ratbag, doesn’t he?    

Next thing Ratbag knew was that Glob-dug had fallen to his knees in front of him, with Talion’s half-broken sword blade sticking through his neck.  The Ranger had stepped up quietly behind him and nearly chopped that pervert’s block off! 

 A hot arterial spray fountained up from Glob-dug’s partly-severed throat and rained down, spattering onto Ratbag’s head.  It ran into his eyes and dripped down off his chin.

Ratbag could’ve cheered!

Bracing one leg against Glob-dug’s still-upstanding body, Ranger tugged his sword free from where it was now firmly embedded, in the bones of the dead Orc’s neck.  Losing its balance point, the corpse of Glob-dug slumped down and sideways, out of Ratbag’s field of view.  Now Talion was standing before him, looking, as ever, tall and handsome, silent and grave.    

As Ratbag stared open-mouthed at the Ranger, his heart did this weird double-thump thing, very hard, high up in his chest.  Ratbag found he couldn’t look away from him.  His throat went dry.

“Orc,” the Ranger said, nodding.

“S’good to see yer….Ranger,” Ratbag acknowledged, by way of reply.

Talion went round the back of the post to cut Ratbag loose.  “Orc,” he said easily, “now who was that poorly-favoured fellow?  Who have you been getting on the wrong side of this time?”

A measure of how discombobulated Ratbag was feeling was that it was on the tip of his tongue to tell him, ‘Glob-dug the rapist,’ but he managed to stop himself, just on the cusp.  “Him?  He’s no-one,” he said.  No need to worry yourself about _him_.”

This was far from being their first Ranger / rescue scenario.  Ratbag felt a slight, fleeting rush of warmth – and it was a distinctly odd sensation – run through him as he realized that Talion was taking a moment to unfasten his legs, first.  The first time he’d freed him Ratbag knew the Ranger been hard-pressed not to laugh out loud when he saw Ratbag, joints sore and locked in place from having been tied upright for – what?  Must’ve been gettin’ on for two, stinkin’ days – fall down flat on his face.  The Orc bore him no ill-will for finding humour in that, however.   It was enough – more than any other had done, for Talion to have bothered saving Ratbag in the first place.   

“Orc.  Are you ready?” Talion said, hands warm on Ratbag's rope-bound wrists, and there it was again – that strange flush of emotion.  Ratbag wondered what the right name for what you called it was.  Gratitude perhaps.  Affection - maybe?  He couldn’t place it, but there was every chance it could be something like that.  

“Yeah,” he nodded.  And then, while Talion was still occupied, which meant Ratbag would get away this once with not having to make eye-contact with him, he asked the question that had been weighing heavy on his mind.

“Ranger.  ‘Fore you got here.  You didn’t – see nothing, did yer?”

“Why?” Talion’s tone was even.  And if he did hesitate before replying, the pause was so slight as to be almost impossible to notice.  “Should I have?”

Talion cut the ropes securing the Orc to his hook.   Ratbag dropped down and caught himself, managing to stand upright, though as yet his legs remained unsteady.

“Nah,” he said quickly.  “Course you shouldn’t’ve.  That's 'cause there wasn’t anythink to see.”

 

TBC

 

The lovely Sauntervaguely has drawn some terrific artwork relating to this story, which you should go and have a look at immediately,[ here](http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/163028753870%20%20):  


	2. Rotten as barrel-fish

 

Something was well wrong with his shoulder. 

It’d come to a fight, sneaking past the lummox posted at the barracks  gate, and that fella had been a man-mountain of a creature, wider across his midsection than Ratbag was tall.   Dratted muscle-head had been showing off: couldn’t just have blocked or parried the flailing side-swipe from the dagger Ratbag had gone to stab him with – oh no.  In a pointless demonstration of his obvious, many-times superior physical strength, he’d simply closed one hand round the smaller Uruk’s wrist, twisted the knife out of his grip, then hauled Ratbag’s entire arm back, back, and further back until something in his shoulder finally....went ’pop’. 

Arriving late, as usual, the Ranger had gone on to see to the Uruk Ratbag had still been  - sort-of one-handedly – fighting.  Then, also as usual, he’d cut through the Orcish ranks, a whirling fiend of matchless, semi-undead energy, cutting through the ranks of his adversaries, dispatching enemies to  left and right.  And that.  In its way the spectacle was impressive.

Of course Ratbag would always admire Talion’s form  - both fighting form and physical; that was a given.  But gaw, he was relentless!   Now, supporting his weight only by his hands the Ranger was rapidly making his way, crab-wise along a ledge, two stories up on a fire-ravaged storehouse.   Reaching the end of the ledge he simply swung himself upwards and across, landing effortlessly on the roof of the Uruk-barrack building.  Talion was tireless in his quest.  So absolutely driven that sometimes the Orc found it exhausting, just having to stand and watch him. 

Soon enough they’d found the Urukish commander for whom they’d been originally searching, and Talion performed his....creepy glowing-hand  mind-reader routine.   Incidental to the process also bending the commander to his eternal will, and so on.

Or at least presumably that’s what Talion did, and though there was every reason for Ratbag having assumed this correctly  (as they’d come away afterwards with the very necessary piece of information that Talion had been seeking), he couldn’t say for sure, because at the time when Talion was carrying out the his soon-to-be-patented glowing-hand  business, Ratbag had been resolutely looking the other way.  Ratbag always found it difficult to watch him do that because he knew too well how it felt to be on the receiving end of Talion’s thrice-accursed, Elf-originated mind-reading trick. 

‘Stripped, utterly of one’s self,’ he might have said if he wanted to be elaborate and someone had asked him what it felt like, in the moments  immediately afterwards; otherwise, ‘violated’  might also stand as a good enough description of it.  Or, more simple yet still quite as accurate: ‘mind-fucked.’

In the heat of it, after fresh troops came and what with their subsequent escape Ratbag had had more to think about than any damage he might’ve sustained.  But now, in the come-down, his left shoulder felt dead, dead dodgy.   

The arm was hanging, useless, and had gone completely numb.

He was trying to hide it, naturally.

Ratbag’s ‘armour’ –

His ridiculous up-standing ruff of armour – those horribly impractical curved spikes of bone that protruded, fang-like, from the top of Ratbag’s jerkin to encircle his upper back and shoulders – now, that wasn’t solely there for neck-protection, or, though it might well have appeared to be the case - just for show.   Not that Ratbag didn’t like the look of it – enjoying the extra weight and air of menace it added to his otherwise, less-than-intimidating profile.

There was also an element of distraction associated with his costume; his adversaries, and others, occasionally becoming so engrossed  – with wondering ‘how it stayed on’? for example, or, ‘how does he ever manage to lie down?’ (to which the short answer was: Ratbag didn’t) – that they sometimes, and more often than one might suspect, quite forgot to notice what was going on underneath.   And not infrequently that would work to Ratbag’s advantage; the fact that his outlandish get-up, well, it could hide a multitude of sins.

Such as a dislocated shoulder, as a case in point.  Out of long-standing Orcish habit, Ratbag knew better than for a moment to show weakness and was stubbornly concealing his hurt, but Talion was a Ranger, one of a keen-eyed, ever-observant group of Men, and as for the ghostly Elf-lord who was also at times a part of him, he was from a far-seeing, watchful people too.   Between the two of them the Uruk’s injury had little chance of going unnoticed.

It was a murky night, dark with clouds and overcast, and for once the unlikely duo, of Orc and Ranger had risked an open fire.  They were in the lee of a sandstone bluff, cut by the current of one of Mordor’s wide, vanished rivers, camped down in the sand where the river-bed would once have been, before the water ran dry.

Ratbag, skulking at the boundary of their bivouac, had been taking a surreptitious pull from the flask of Orc-draught he’d ‘liberated’, back at the Uruks’ barracks.

“Orc .  Here’s your share.  Catch.” Talion instructed, lobbing a generous chunk of half-cooked brisket at him, more light-fingered liftings from their exploits earlier in the day.

The sneaky sod timed it perfectly.  With his good hand tipping the flask to his mouth, there was no way Ratbag could’ve caught the steak chunk Talion threw him – and didn’t that bastard Ranger know it.  It hit Ratbag squarely on the chin.  He̕d been distracted - spitting scalding meat-juice and spilled liquor – and glanced up only to find Talion standing over him.  Looming over him, actually.

“Looks like you’ve sustained some damage,” said he.

Ratbag put his ears back and shrank from him, going so far as to bare his teeth.  “Says _who_?”

Talion ignored that.  “Come on,” he continued gamely, and crouched down by Ratbag’s side.  “Your shoulder, isn’t it?  Get over on your back.  And you’d better take -” he took hold of one of the protruding spikes that surmounted Ratbag’s body-armour and used it, not unkindly, to lever him back and forth.  “Better take some of this gubbins off.”

“What,” Ratbag sneered, finding himself more than a little put out by the unflattering description of his beloved armour as being ‘gubbins’ - “wanting us to play doctors and nurses now, are you? You’ve been waiting for a chance to get me all exposed and – and _helpless_ , I’ll bet!  Not likely!  Ratbag’s not gonna be ‘aving any of _that_.”

The Ranger’s tone was perfectly reasonable.  “I want to have a look.”

“And I’m telling yer there’s no need!  I’m your creature now, aren’t I?  With all your –“ he gestured vaguely with his good hand, holding it towards his face and pantomiming the grip Talion would take just prior to mind-reading / brainwashing one of his Urukish subjects.  “What with that _way_ you had of bringing me on side, I’ve got no secrets left - you’ve made sure of that.  You know I’m not holding out on you -  I wouldn’t!  It’s the honest truth!”

“And are you on my side?” Talion asked, contemplating what the Orc had said. “Is that also the honest truth?”  

Ratbag snorted, a rude sound of disparagement. “On your side?    _Chance_ to stand wiv’ you would be a fine thing!  Not now you’ve got me where you want me.  Like this, haven’t you -” and he squeezed his thumb and forefinger tight together to show Talion - “completely under the thumb, aren’t I?  Squashed flat.”

“Like it or not we’re comrades,” Talion told him, in a voice that brooked no possible dispute.  “So you’re going to let me tend your injury.” And then to decide it he added - “you’re of no use to me damaged.”

There was not much point arguing with that one.

He had Ratbag remove the upper layer of his armour and then lie down.  The Orc’s left shoulder was obviously dislocated.  

Ratbag felt dreadfully vulnerable, lying there.  Unbearably exposed.

“Ranger,” he said from his prone position, squinting up at him.  Ratbag’s throat clicked, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed apprehensively.  “All that – those things I said to you before.  Means you know, don’t c’her, that there’s no need ter –“ he moved his hand up to his forehead, mimicking Talion’s mind-reader grip.  “For you to –“  he broke off, and not meeting Talion’s gaze, finished: “please don’t make me do that, Ranger.  Not again.” 

“Only the arm, then.  I’ll only fix your arm.”

The hope the little Uruk couldn’t keep out of his voice when he next spoke was almost pathetic.  “That a promise?”

“To you, yes.”  Talion stood.  Bracing his feet against Ratbag’s bony ribcage, the Ranger took a double-handed hold on his left wrist, straightened the injured arm and began pulling it out away from his body, using a steady amount of force until at last, the misaligned joint slotted neatly back into place. 

Ratbag didn’t take his eyes off Talion for a moment throughout this process.  Nor did he make a sound, but the lines that worry and care had etched round his mouth and brow deepened markedly, and what little healthy colour he had in his face left it.

When it was over he sat up immediately, back bowed, and hugged his injured arm close.  “Thank ‘ee, Ranger” he muttered, and then, manipulating the damaged shoulder-joint with his fingers, added, wonderingly – “that feels….much better, already.”   

Talion knelt down by the Orc.  In the absence of the usual layers of leather and bone armour he wore he could see that Ratbag had been unlucky on that side.  There were open pike-wounds where the Uruk  guards had speared him, making sport as he hung from his gibbet.  Underneath the long, shallow gouges his ribs were bruised blue-black and swollen, damaged from the fall when Talion cut him down and he’d landed with all his weight on the head of one of the other guards.  Those ribs were in all likelihood cracked, though Ratbag had said not much by way of complaint.  Talion himself had thought little enough of it at time.   

The Ranger would never shirk from a fight with an Uruk; not when that meant wreaking vengeance -  albeit a second-hand type of vengeance – upon the denizens of Mordor in return for the murderous deaths of his family and all his kin.  But when Talion had come upon them the previous afternoon, Ratbag and – the other one, he could allow there had also been something else to it.

Talion had heard them some time before they were in view; had recognized the voice of the Orc – of Ratbag – uttering a cut-short cry of anguish and revulsion.  He’d not seen exactly what the other one was doing to him; whatever was going on he hadn’t _wanted_ to see, but in the aftermath the situation seemed clear enough.  From Ratbag’s obvious shame, humiliation - the way his eyes and face were wet with distress - to the way the front of the larger Uruk’s breeches had gaped open, his arousal evident and full in view; there was no doubt that it had involved a gross physical molestation being enacted upon Ratbag.  Upon his Orc.         

Upon _Talion’s_ Orc.

In the moment an ugly rage suffused him and he’d cleaved through the neck of Ratbag’s tormentor with scarce a second thought.  Talion had killed the Orc, but it hadn’t been accompanied by the thrill of self-righteous satisfaction that such an act of violence would usually have afforded him.  If anything, once the Orc was dead Talion’s anger ratcheted up in intensity.  He was furious at having no-one left to battle, and, after what the Orc had done, at having killed that black-hearted miscreant too quickly -   

Yes, perhaps he could allow that something else - some unnamed, unacknowledged emotion might have been motivating his actions at the time.

Talion rummaged for a pot of healing-salve, finding it at the bottom of his pack.  It was a small jar and there was not much left.  Nor was anyone likely to be making any more of it, for the wise woman who recipe it had been was long-since dead, killed along with all the other inhabitants of Talion’s village.  Not long ago it wouldn’t have occurred to the Ranger to waste such a precious substance on the likes of Ratbag – and yet.     

He smoothed a long streak over the open injuries in Ratbag’s side, spreading the salve more thinly over the discoloured area.  He was careful not to use too much, and applied it only with the bare ends of his fingertips because it was a powerful concoction.  There was bone-knit in it; dragon’s-bane to numb the pain, but taken in the wrong doses, that herb could be a poison, too.

At the first touch of the Ranger’s hand Ratbag turned his head and gaped at him, orange-yellow eyes searching Talion’s face.  The Orc – always talkative, so crudely eloquent usually, was for once struck dumb.  He pointed towards Talion’s hand on his side – it was a flustered, questioning gesture - and shook his head.  His mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

“It will help the bruising,” the Ranger said. 

He had not troubled to look this closely at his companion before.  And no wonder!  For he had an ugly, twisted, most unprepossessing face.  But now he noted a charming smattering of freckles – barely noticeable, very faint - across the bridge of Ratbag’s nose, and scattered across his sharply slanting cheekbones too.

It was unwise, but perhaps Talion could allow that he’d let himself become on some level – attached.  His fingertips still rested on Ratbag’s side, and through them he could feel Ratbag’s heart, hammering heavily against his ribs.  The Uruk’s pulse-rate had skyrocketed.  He squirmed in place and wriggled, seemingly beside himself with agitation.

Once again Talion ran his hand down Ratbag’s side.  Once again the kind touch undid him.  The Orc caught his breath and shivered.  He hunched over on himself, hands in his lap and tried to turn way from Talion.  He’d closed his eyes.

Talion moved Ratbag’s hands aside.  With them out of the way the bulge of his erection was obvious.

“Now, look Ranger.  Don’t go getting the wrong idea.  That there – it doesn’t mean _anything_ –“ the Orc gulped guiltily.  Hunching over again he brought his legs up, desperate to hide.

Talion pushed the Orc onto his back and held him there.  “There’s no need, Ratbag.  You’ll let me tend to that, too.”

 Ratbag shook his head, shocked beyond speech and not comprehending, eyes darting wildly from side to side.

“Comrades,” Talion told him firmly.  “That means I intend on seeing to this.  Is that understood?”

Without waiting for a reply Talion unbuckled the Orc’s breeches and exposed him.

Ratbag had all the colours of a healing bruise.  Over his nethers and his privates his skin was the same old-bruise shade of yellow as the rest of him.  This graded to near purple-black at the far end of his member, where it was swollen thick with blood.  A neat row of metal piercings ran from his frenulum  - which was pierced also, straight through the eye with one heavy, vertically-oriented ring – down and down the underside of the length of him, and went on down the centre of his ball-sack, continuing beneath.

In Ratbag’s normal state the links would no doubt have overlapped to some extent, lying like a single, crooked row of mail.  Painfully engorged as he was now, the rings stood proud apart and distinct, clinking slightly against each other as his member weaved and twitched.   Loosened from the confines of Ratbag’s breeches his erection sprang free, rearing up from a dark, tatty-looking swatch of pubic hair.  It soon came to rest on the muscles of Ratbag’s stomach, where it continued to nod and gently pulse.  His male organ was large and smooth, standing in an elegant curve that pointed down towards his stomach, and also leant off slightly towards one side. Held open as it was by the width of the topmost piercing set into it, the opening at the tip was at that moment dribbling a sticky, clear, yet dark-hued fluid in fitful spots and streams.    

The Orc was sprawling on his back.  He was frowning, features screwed into a look of profound apprehension that made him look in pain almost, but his mouth meanwhile was gaping open in arousal, displaying a needle-sharp array of pointed teeth – fangs that would have sat well in the jaws of a predatory, deep-sea fish.   

No doubt about it.  Seen like this he was an obscene, yet awful bonny sight.

Ratbag lifted his arms over his head and held them stretched there, one hand taking a tight grip on the other by the wrist. 

The offer was implicit and obvious.  Ratbag waited, braced, for Talion’s reaction.  His stringy muscles stood out, fine-cut and distinct, biceps straining at the leather bands around them.

“I told you we’re comrades,” the Ranger repeated, “and you’re going to let me see to this.”

Ratbag nodded frantically.

If Talion had thought it through – assuming he’d thought, beforehand, at all – he’d have declared his intention was to have the thing over as quickly and efficiently as possible.  It wasn’t unheard of, what he was doing, as he’d so much as told his Orc before, for a Ranger perhaps to help his comrade by the lending of a friendly hand.  And who could begrudge a little scrap of solace shared between the members of a group of such isolated, lonely, driven men?  As long as one were to be discreet: there had even at one point been one particular comrade - a young Ranger, tow-headed, merry; he was also dead now, many years ago.  Talion had assisted that friend in this way on more than one occasion.  But he hadn’t let the fact of it change their situation; not the way Talion felt about himself, his comrade, or the company of women.  Certainly from Talion’s perspective, it hadn’t changed a thing.

In Ratbag’s case, however, it was impossible to maintain a comparable level of detachment.  The Orc was responsive and transparent in his reactions; confiding to a degree that to his dismay, Talion found intimate, and very nearly touching.  It was difficult for the Ranger to not in some way engage with him, for he held nothing of himself back. 

He’d grasped the Orc carefully at first, angling his hand towards the upper surface and sides of Ratbag’s erection, so as to avoid disturbing any of the items inserted underneath.  Ratbag’s response was to weave his hips – a diverting, snake-hipped wriggle – insinuating himself more firmly into Talion’s hand.  They carried on, Talion with half of a full hold on him, until -

“Ranger.  You - you needn’t worry about all them rings - and things - you know,” Ratbag  blurted out suddenly.   His voice was hoarse, and out-of-breath.   “Or to be so leery ‘bout where you want to be putting your hands.  You’ll not _catch_ anything.  I’ve never ‘ad knob-rot.  Or crotch-itch – _argh!_ ” 

Talion had run his fingers along the inset line of links, making Ratbag’s length jump upwards, startlingly -gratifyingly; he did it again.  Again Ratbag’s shaft jerked up, leaping into his grip.  Talion manipulated the ring set in the end of it.  The metal was wet and slippery from the fluid leaking out around it and moved easily, rotating back and forth freely, under Talion’s thumb.  The sensations the Orc was experiencing from this region were obviously of greatly heightened sensitivity and Talion could see that already, he was very close.  Ratbag’s head fell back and he groaned.  He’d shut his eyes. 

“Orc.  Look at me,” said Talion.  He didn’t like to feel ignored and could hear a warning note of irritation in his own voice that took him by surprise. 

Ratbag however, complied at once.  Talion knew he was the sole focus of the Orc’s attention as he held him, tortuously, just on the very brink.

“You’re my creature.”  The Ranger couldn’t have said where the words were coming from, but Ratbag’s reaction to them was gratifying, too.  “My creature,” he repeated.  “No-one’s but mine.  You understand that, Orc, don’t you?”   

“I’m your creature,” Ratbag repeated, vigorously nodding his head.  His gaze was fixed on Talion, the pupils of his eyes dilated so wide as to almost completely obscure the iris.  They looked black, in the firelight.  But he then added “ – what?” 

That, however was already a good enough of an answer for Talion.  He touched and squeezed with his fingers, subjecting the Orc to a deliberate sequence of sensations and pressure that, by Talion’s reckoning, would allow him his moment of release. 

Ratbag’s climax began directly and went on for some time.  There was no denying that he put on a good show.  He cried out and wriggled at his point of orgasm, shouting and shuddering as he spilled himself messily into Talion’s hand and all over his own, still jerking hips.

As Talion disengaged from him Ratbag caught hold of his wrist with alarming, wiry strength.  Then, never taking his eyes off him, he pulled it to his mouth and used his tongue and lips to clean off every drop of his own release,  He sucked, lingeringly - longingly - on Talion’s thumb and fingers, mouthed at the palm of his hand and licked the whole area spotlessly clean.  The Orc did an outstandingly thorough job of it.

Talion recoiled from him, disconcerted himself, now, and jumped to his feet.  Without a word he turned his back on Ratbag and walked quickly away from the fire.

 

 

TBC

 

 

 

 


	3. The ways of the Orc

 

Ratbag had always had a tendency to let his mouth run away with him.  He was already well aware of that.  He also knew that it wasn’t so much of tendency as an unbreakable bad habit.  And that applied – it was doubly true - when the circumstances he was experiencing overtook him; when he was being hurt or was in hot water for example and also, admittedly -   

Especially at the moment of his orgasm.

Sighing wearily he picked himself up, wiping away the streaks of his recent release from his stomach as he went.

He pulled his clothes back into position.  The Ranger had –

Ratbag shook his head.  He didn’t know _what_ the Ranger thought he’d been doing.

Although he hadn’t believed at first that it was happening, _of course_ he, Ratbag, had gone along with it.  And at first it had been – good.  That was an understatement!  Right up until the moment he’d come, it had been more, far more than Ratbag, even in his darkest, least-acknowledged, most secret dreams would’ve ever, _ever_ –

But then, turning on a moment, it all was suddenly – less good.

Ratbag was an Orc.  Among other things that meant he didn’t expect kindness or consideration.  He was barely aware of the existence of those concepts, and, if asked, would’ve been barely able to put into words an explanation of what kindness and consideration are – insofar as he knew beyond doubt, with a belief that had been hard-wired into him that as an Orc he had no rights to either one of them.

One thing Ratbag did know very well, however, was when he’d fucked up.   And when Talion simply up and stalked away off into the night just now, well, that was a new gold-standard benchmark definition of Ratbag having fucked things up right there.

He couldn’t have said what he’d done wrong, exactly, but thought there were a number of possible candidates.  And being aware of his own garrulous tendencies, Ratbag couldn’t help but wonder: was it something – was it, specifically, that thing - he’d said? 

Talion, however, had asked to hear it; moreover, he’d more-or-less _demanded_ it.  Ratbag was pretty certain that, if he hadn’t said it, they’d both still be stuck there, Ranger still with his hand on Ratbag’s meat, the devious bastard, holding him back and holding him back from coming off.  Knowing the Ranger, it would’ve gone on to be a proper impasse.  Yes, there was every chance they’d have stayed like that indefinitely.  Until the stars burned out.  Until the sea drained dry – all of that shit.  Till both their bodies withered away to dust – and Talion _still_ with his fist in its stubborn hold round Ratbag’s stick.  Admittedly, certain aspects of that scenario made it not the absolute _worst_ ending Ratbag could possibly think of, but that was hardly the point.

In any case he’d said it.   All right!  He could allow that he’d _wanted_ to say it. 

But then Talion - well.  Off he went striding into the night taking the huff and here Ratbag was on his tod, wasn’t he?  If it was anyone else he’d have laughed about it afterwards.  What did Ratbag care if some other sad sack who’d just tossed him off decided they wanted to go flouncing away in a big strop?

Problem was, it wasn’t just some other sad sack this time, was it?  It was his Ranger.  It was _Talion_.

The piece of ox-meat Talion had thrown him at the beginning of their interaction was still lying where it had fallen.  Ratbag picked it up and scraped away most of the outer coating of sand that had stuck to it.  Not that he was finicky about his food: raw or cooked, fresh or half-rotting and the odd maggot, if present, could stand up as a good source of protein; someone else’s leavings – and he often eaten garbage, even; he’d justabout try anything, only drawing the line at grass.  A bellyful of grass was no use.  At one particularly desperate point Ratbag had given grass a good old go, but try as he might, hadn’t been able to keep the stuff down.  Apart from that and in common with most Orcs he had an exceptionally strong stomach.

The chunk of meat was soft and savoury and in deference to the Orc’s preference Talion had left it nicely undercooked.  Ratbag didn’t notice.  He gulped it down, tearing it apart in a few, sharp-toothed bites so as not to waste it.  Under other circumstances he would’ve found it delicious.  At that moment, it didn’t taste of anything at all to him. 

It would be a shame to waste their fire, too, so Ratbag went close and squatted down beside it.  As an Orc that was another thing he was not, strictly-speaking, in need of either.  He was used to the cold; barely registered when he felt it, these days.  They were trained to be that way; not to mind, or ultimately even notice that kind of bodily discomfort.

Still, at that moment he enjoyed the feeling of the dry warmth on his skin. The flickering firelight was strangely comforting, too.      

Ratbag knew he was in trouble when the Ranger’s hand on his good shoulder surprised him.  First came the troubling realization of Ratbag having allowed himself to be snuck-up upon in the first place; it was _years_ since he’d been caught out in such a fundamental blunder.  An then, if it had come to a fair fight Ratbag wasn’t sure he could’ve beaten the Ranger.  That didn’t seem likely; not that that mattered because this wasn’t such a fight.  The Orc wasn’t able to defend himself against Talion; the nature of the intangible hold the other had on him being such that Ratbag was incapable of acting otherwise than in accordance with Talion’s wishes.

The Orc gathered the remnants of his courage, and if fabric was a metaphor for courage, Ratbag’s at this point would have made no more than a worn and threadbare, tattered, miserable excuse for a cloak.  That night he did not have it in him to try to be defiant, or show false bravado and so he waited, prepared to pay for his mistakes.

Talion’s hand remained, a heavy, friendly weight on Ratbag’s shoulder.  Talion neither raised it against him in anger nor bunched it in a fist. 

Ratbag squinted up at the Ranger.  Talion squeezed his shoulder slightly.  He smiled at him, a little.

When he saw that after all, the Ranger was not angry something inside Ratbag’s rib-cage began to unclench, or perhaps unfurl.  Something in Ratbag’s chest felt that it had sort of – _blossomed,_ in that moment Talion’s hand was on his shoulder and the Ranger was smiling down at him.  

That was when Ratbag knew that the trouble he was in was of the deepest, duplicitous, most dangerous sort. 

“Orc,” Talion told him.  “It’s good that you’re still here.”

“See here.  I didn’t mean…” Ratbag began, automatically.  Then, on realizing the words weren’t what he’d been expecting added - “Ranger?  You think it is?”

“Too often you will go….skulking away to wherever it is you do go.  You know you do.”

“I thought I wasn’t wanted,” Ratbag was about to say, but stopped the words in time.  “You seemed to skulk off for a while there yourself, Ranger,” he replied instead.

Talion sat down beside him, looking thoughtful, and fed a stick into the fire.  “Myself and the, ah -  Elf-Lord. We had one or two things we needed to discuss.”

Ratbag shivered.  His one encounter with the Elf-Lord had been memorable as it was unpleasant.  It was his understanding however that Talion’s experiences with Celebrimbor were quite different in nature to what his had been.  Well, they’d have to be!  If Ratbag was in Talion’s position and had to put up with going through – _that_ – on a regular basis, by now he’d definitely, _definitely_ have topped himself.  Killed himself, dying for the second time, as if that was in any way a sensible or natural thing to do.    

“Ah!  Talking about enterprises of great pitch and moment and all that, were you?”   

The Ranger grimaced.  That went without saying.

“Stuff that couldn’t wait, I’ll betcha.  Not for old Ratbag’s ears is it, that sort of thing.”

Talion sighed.  “I suppose that’s true.”

“Whatever the two of you were talking about.  Is it sorted out now, then?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

***

The Elvish Prince Celebrimbor was more than an earth-bound spirit; he was a wraith, whose incorporeal existence was now inextricably linked with Talion’s own.  He was now a part of Talion, and yet was not at all times present; manifesting chiefly during battles, as well as on other instances when his counsel was needed.  It was a mercy, in its way.  The existence of a second person, ever-present in his head; the constant, disorienting feeling of being always in two minds would quickly have driven Talion mad otherwise.

The Ranger had been kneeling beside Ratbag, who was engaged in his unorthodox cleansing of Talion’s hand when Celebrimbor made his presence known.  One moment he was absent, the next he was not: the Elf-Prince suddenly appeared next to Talion, materializing apparently out of thin air.  As ever in looks he was a shimmering, ghost-like figure and his arrival came as a most unwelcome surprise.  A lack of welcoming however was apparent on both sides.

“What” the Elf-Lord demanded, “can you possibly think you are about?”  Although he knew that Ratbag could neither see nor hear him, he persisted in delivering his words as a fierce whisper into Talion’s ear.  “I insist we leave.  We must leave instantly.  I insist we leave this _instant_.”

Talion felt he had no option but to comply.

As soon as the Ranger’s steps had put was some distance between them, Celebrimbor began his attack. “What made you think of doing it,” he demanded, outraged, pacing back and forth by Talion’s side.  “ _Why_ did you do it?  _What_ can you possibly have been thinking?”

Talion’s answer was uncomplicated.  “I wanted to.”

That rendered the Elf-Lord speechless.  Seemingly Talion’s simple, honest answer had for the moment flummoxed him.

Celebrimbor tried another tack.  “I was unable to avoid catching a glimpse of those – objects.  Those insertions he has in him.”  He paused, the spectral outline of his nose wrinkling fastidiously.  “You’re aware of the ones I mean?  Down – _below._ ”

Talion shrugged.  Yes, he’d found that rather strange - but then Ratbag was a strange sort of creature to begin with.

“Those rings,” Celebimbor continued “are the clear mark of a bonded slave.  Some Men like to mark their slaves that way, or didn’t you know?  A barbaric practice and most often undertaken, as I understand it, as a form of punishment.  They have them put in as a means of clearly identifying a particular type or category, or a particularly rebellious type of slave.”   

“What of it,” Talion said.

“Whatever else, you must see it means that Orc is sullied goods.  It means he was once almost certainly some other person’s chattel – a dirty, degraded type of thing.  Possibly he’s had – and has _been_ had - by many masters.  We’ll never know.” 

Talion shrugged.  As far as he knew, Ratbag had quite possibly been ‘had’ by some other Orc as recently as – ‘yesterday.’  That made no difference from his perspective, though he was increasingly aware that Celebrimbor did not share his point of view.  “He’s no-one’s slave, or chattel now,” he said. 

“Except for being your own, naturally.  As I remember you both so memorably establishing not five minutes since!  During that _unspeakably_ shameful, sordid, interplay.”

It occurred to Talion then to wonder at what point exactly the Elf-Lord had come upon them.

“It was at the point you were forever plighting your troth to one another, or so it appeared to me!  You realize you’re going to be stuck with that Orc now, don’t you?  He’ll follow you around endlessly, now he thinks you’ve made him your thrall!”

Talion countered: “but he has his own ambitions, still.   Ratbag plans to position himself as an Orcish War Chief and is determined he will do it.  If you remember, the night we met he thought nothing of bargaining with me with my sword at his throat as a means towards that ending.”

“’The night we met?’” Celebrimbor repeated, sounding incredulous.  “Can it be that you are planning to mark the occasion as an anniversary?”

“I say those aren’t the actions of a slave.  If Ratbag ever was one, he hasn’t let that stand in his way.”   

Celebrimbor clucked his tongue.  “Overcompensating,” he stated simply.  “He’s grossly overcompensating.  That’s what _that_ is.”

“Incidentally, the glimpse I caught of those objects,” Celebrimbor continued, his ghostly features twisting into an expression of extreme distaste, “was immediately before I witnessed your proud, determined, would-be War Chief start to lick up his own _milt_.”

Talion also had to blanch a little himself then. What Ratbag did – he’d been unpleasantly surprised by the Elf-wraith in the midst of it, and hadn’t begun to examine the emotions that seeing Ratbag like that, _doing_ that, had provoked in him.  He wasn’t sure yet how he felt about it. 

As ever the Elf-Lord seemed sure he had a superior understanding of the situation.  “You enjoyed it!”

“I’m – not certain that I did.  I wouldn’t like to say one way or the other.”

“Does this uncertainty mean you intend to continue?  With that - Orc?  Doing - those things?”

“It’s not affecting our quest.”

“And that’s your answer, is it?” Celebrimbor was incensed but also deflated, almost as if he’d been anticipating Talion’s answer and now he seemed resigned.  “In that case I demand to be given notice, so that in future I may absent myself in good time.”

***

Sitting by the fire with Ratbag, Talion tried to explain.  “Amongst other things, Celebrimbor wished to tell me that he never wants again to have to see – what he saw just now.  You know.”

Ratbag nodded, not looking at him.  He did know.

”He demanded I give him advance notice so that – if it should ever happen again in future he may have a chance to absent himself.”

The words ‘again, in future’ made Ratbag dizzy with joy, but by this stage in his life he was well-used to crushing disappointment and did his best not to read too much into it.  “And – just supposing if….well, if something else _does_ happen.  When your Elf-lord he ‘absents himself’ he’ll be -?”

“MEDITATING!”  The Celebrimbor’s retort was delivered as a ghostly shriek that reverberated through Talion’s cranium. 

“He says he’ll use the time well, for meditation.”

“ _Must_ you insist on continually repeating every, single, thing I say?!”

“It’s not the Orc’s fault he can’t hear you, you know,” Talion thought at him.

But Celebrimbor was gone, leaving Talion and Ratbag alone.  They sat together in a peaceable, if somewhat strained silence.

“I’ll take first watch,” Talion said eventually.  “The wind’s getting up.  It’s blowing in from the north.  You can use this.” He picked up his blanket roll and handed it to Ratbag.  “I don’t think I’ve seen you with one of your own, have I?”

“No, Ranger,” Ratbag replied.  He didn’t have a bed-roll, or pack or kit bag, or much in the way of personal possessions or – anything.  There wasn't much point.  Any good stuff he had would just get instantly nicked.  “That’s because I don’t…sleep much, really," he explained.  There’s no need.”  And this was true.  It was another thing that had been bred into, or out of him.

 “Then you can rest in it, can’t you?  Don’t tell me you don’t need rest, at least.  You look all done in.”

“Nar, Ranger.”  The Orc’s bared his fangs in a rueful grin.  “Always raring to go aren’t I, me. I think that what you’re looking at - that must just be the ordinary set of Ratbag’s plain old plug-ugly face.”  

He unfastened Talion’s bed-roll, spread it flat on the sand and knelt by it, hesitating.

“Are you sure you want me to – won’t I get dirt on it?”

“It’s dirty already.”

 _Not dirty with Orc-filth, it isn’t_ , thought Ratbag as he positioned himself gingerly on his side on the edge of the blanket.   _Or at least, it isn't yet._   He made no reply.

“Here,” The Ranger, sounding almost amused. He twitched the free side of the blanket up and over Ratbag, draping his body so it covered him.  “Don’t you know you’re not doing this right?”

Ratbag didn’t answer.  He lacked neither the capacity to feel a cold wind blowing on his naked back nor the desire to sleep but his early training, together with the corrupted mental processes that were the legacy of heredity had fixed in him a certain mindset; a way of thinking about himself as well as his circumstances that had savagely warped – had bleakly coloured – _everything_.  The position in which he now found himself – with a comrade by his side, one who was taking account of Ratbag’s welfare, behaving in a way that suggested he might almost even in some way _value_ him;  it was in direct opposition to that mindset and to Ratbag the experience was novel as it was – disorienting.

But Talion’s blankets smelled of him; of the faint, salty scent of his sweat and the warm, comforting aroma from the oils in his skin.  He was a clean man, methodical in his attempts to maintain some semblance of personal hygiene and, in a sequence of behaviour that was a constant source of bafflement to Ratbag, was in the habit of washing at least the salient portions of his body whenever he encountered any reasonable-looking source of water and the temperature remained high enough above freezing.   In spite of this Ratbag had quickly become almost preternaturally attuned to the Ranger’s faint personal odour.  He’d find himself moving so that he was standing downwind of Talion; positioning himself at much less of a distance than he ordinarily would find comfortable, meaning in Ratbag’s case within striking distance: in reach of one of Talion’s outstretched arms; all this simply in the hope of catching the slightest whiff of him.  The Orc couldn’t have said why he did it exactly.  The smell of Talion made him think of Talion, that was all, and of the many things that Talion represented to him; hope and ease from pain; safety, as well as a host of other, half-buried, long-neglected, barely-recognizable things - but they were no less precious to Ratbag for all that it was difficult for him to give them their true name. 

He could sense the Ranger’s gaze still on him.  Ratbag didn’t sleep but sometimes he could cat-nap.  Surrounded by the warmth of Talion’s blanket and with the Ranger’s faint, reassuring scent around him, it wasn’t difficult for Ratbag to close his orange eyes and give that a try. 

 

TBC


	4. Come with me, Ranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A scene from this part of the story has been beautifully illustrated by the lovely Sauntervaguely here:
> 
> http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/166206410025
> 
> With a clickable link at the end of the chapter. Great and excellent as it is, it's probably NSFW though.

 

A corner of the nearest building was still standing.  That was where the Ranger herded him, into the small space where two pieces of collapsing stone wall intersected.

They’d just finished fighting Orcs. 

Of course they had.  It was Talion’s usual questing thing.

Ratbag stumbled forwards, tripping repeatedly over fallen fragments of rubble.  He was trying to keep his eye on Talion, who was crowding him, following close behind.  Ratbag could see that he still had his sword drawn and in his hand.  That fact was intensely worrying to him.

This was bad.  Ratbag couldn’t help but keep glancing back at the Ranger as they went, craning his neck to look over his shoulder.  That made him keep tripping over his feet.  He’d already barked his shins maybe half a dozen times. 

Perhaps if he could get Talion talking.  That was worth a shot, wasn’t it?

“Tell me Ranger, _please_.  Tell me what I’ve done.  Whatever it was - Ratbag promises he’s going to fix it, doesn’t he?  I’ll fix it, Ranger.  Let me have a chance to fix it, Ranger.  Please.”  Ratbag knew he was gabbling, but the words wouldn’t stop spilling out.  The way Talion was acting – that was making him very nervous now, see?

His companion – or possibly he should start thinking of Talion as being ‘his captor’ -

Talion was in no mood to talk.

Because that was the way this thing looked like it was going Ratbag laced his fingers together and placed his hands in a prisoner’s stance with  palms turned upwards, on top of his head.  It didn’t help his balance and the position put unnecessary strain on his recently-dislocated shoulder.  The injury was healing well, but the joints were still sore, and very stiff.

Ratbag’s shoulder was hurting, but worse for him was the memory it raised of how…. _different_ Talion had been, the night he’d healed his shoulder.  How he’d almost seemed like he – gave a _toss_ , or something – about Ratbag, when he’d started spreading that soothing stuff over Ratbag’s ribs.  And then afterwards, how Talion had –

But that had been a week ago.  The Ranger had barely spoken, or looked at Ratbag since.  It must’ve been all to do with the healing after all then, mustn’t it?   And it wasn’t as if Talion hadn’t told him straight: “I’ve no use for an injured Orc.”  It was nothing personal.  That was what Talion had said. 

“Here.” 

Ratbag almost jumped out of his skin as Talion used the flat of his sword turned against Ratbag’s thigh  to halt him in his tracks.

With a brusque movement Talion pushed the Orc’s arms away from his head.  “There’s no need for that.”

They continued on their way.  Ratbag kept his hands raised warily, at shoulder-height.  Just in case. “What do you want me to do with them instead?” he blurted as he stumbled forward.

Talion didn’t reply at once.  “I don’t care,” he answered.  “Be sure to keep them out of my way.”

So Ratbag kept his hands up.  On they went.  “Ranger,” he said, “I dunno if you’ve noticed, but we’re running out of path a bit, here.”

It was true.  Talion had him cornered now, penned in tight between the two broken sections of wall.

“I can see that, Orc.” He caught Ratbag by the collar of his jerkin and stopped him.  “Stay.”

‘Ratbag the coward’ was what they’d named him, but not for an extremely long time had Ratbag been in danger of unintentionally voiding his bowels on the battlefield.  It nearly happened at that moment however, the result of an additional shock coming on top of the fear and anxiousness from Talion’s    current treatment of him.  

Ratbag felt a wave of watery weakness run through his gut as a black bolt fired from a cross-bow shot past him at very close range, taking with it a neat little section of cartilage from the outside of Ratbag’s right ear.  If he’d happened to be turning towards Talion when it got him, it’d have hit him square in the middle of his face.  As it was the arrow struck the masonry just in front of Ratbag and it clattered, useless, to the ground.

More arrows came.  Spinning round, Talion used his sword to deflect them effortlessly, left and right.   He drew his own bow.  It was the Dwarf-forged one that naturally, had its own stupid, runically-engraved name. 

The Orc archer who’d fired at them never had a chance.  Talion’s arrow caught him through the side of the neck and he toppled, gurgling out a gruesome death-cry from where he’d climbed, high on the opposite wall of the building behind them.

Talion turned back to Ratbag, an eerie glow from his use of the Elvish weapon still lighting his face.

Ratbag cowered from him.  No doubt this would be the point at which Talion finally decided to turn that blasted, broken sword on Ratbag too, to cut Ratbag’s throat.  He wondered if there was any use in begging for him not to do it and promptly dropped down to his knees.

“ _Orc,_ ” the Ranger said, sounding dangerous.  It was a tone of voice that did not inspire confidence.  “I had that situation covered.  I thought I told you to _stay_.”

At that he stowed his weapons; his sword went back into its scabbard at his hip and the long-bow into its holder on his back.  Talion guided the Orc, brusquely by the elbows, to his feet.

“Stand up straight,” he told him.  “And turn around.”

Ratbag did it.  He turned and faced the wall.  Thinking better of it he crossed his wrists behind him, holding them together in the small of his back.  He bowed his head and stood there, waiting.

“Orc?” Talion’s voice came from much too close behind him.  “What’s this?”

“I’m keeping them out of the way,” Ratbag replied, “the way you told me.”

“I didn’t mean like that.  Here.”  Talion repositioned Ratbag’s hands, one either side of his head and pressing flat against the wall.  The Orc took his some of his weight in his arms and leant forwards, gratefully.  Talion stood head and shoulders above Ratbag at the best of times, and the Ranger’s greater height and superior breadth of body were much accentuated by his proximity.  He was more than a match for Ratbag and this close the comparison between them was unpleasant.  Ratbag’s knees felt weak.

Talion’s busy fingers were unfastening the buckles and straps that attached Ratbag’s bone-spiked neck protection to the rest of him.  He detached the neck-piece, then the armour from his upper body, splitting the bone and leather ribcage and pieces of vertebral column that Ratbag wore into two neat sections.  It was as easy for the Ranger as if he were opening up a clam-shell that contained the meat of Ratbag within; another comparison that had its own unhappy connotations. 

Talion set the various items on the ground.

“Ratbag.  You’re shaking.”  The Ranger was stood so close, so right up tight behind him Ratbag wasn’t surprised he could feel Ratbag’s cowardly trembling.  He leant forward, bracing one hand next to Ratbag’s so that Ratbag’s back was pressed against his front.  Ranger did something with his tattered grey cloak then so that it was now – not _enfolding_ Ratbag exactly, but it was kind of hanging either side of him.  The Orc didn’t know whether he should feel comforted or oppressed.

Ratbag jumped in place as Talion examined the newly notched segment in his ear.  “You’re right.  That was a near miss.” 

“Is it bleeding much?”

“No. You were lucky.  It’s almost stopped.”  Ranger’s arm went round Ratbag’s chest in a hold that almost felt like he was embracing him.  He sought out the healing injuries in Ratbag’s side and traced them up and down with his fingers in a way that made Ratbag shiver.  “You’ll survive, I think.”

His hand went up to Ratbag’s jawline and stayed there for a moment.  Then he moved his thumb in a slow swipe across Ratbag’s mouth.  It lingered on  the iron piercing in his lip, making Ratbag think quite forcefully of the things that not long ago, Talion had done with rings set in other parts of him.

Ratbag’s legs did buckle then, a little.  It didn’t matter.  Talion was there to catch him.

“You fought well today, Orc.”  The Ranger’s hand went down, stroking Ratbag’s throat, across his chest, rubbing the flat discs of his nipples – which pebbled into hard, protruding nubs at the first instant of his touch, embarrassing Ratbag – Ranger’s hand even went straying - touching, massaging all the while – in and out of his left armpit.   Talion held Ratbag back against his chest, still rubbing and stroking him.  Down his hand went to the Orc’s stomach.  Lower.

The muscles in Ratbag’s belly contracted in an involuntary movement.  He was already hot and hard between his legs.  The sensations intensified as Talion’s hand moved over his stomach.  Ratbag’s  attention was completely focussed on it; at times the Ranger’s fingers were coming – _this close_ – to brushing the very tip of Ratbag’s stick.  He wanted him to touch it.  He was desperate for him to touch it.  It was standing up so tight and stiff he’d have given anything for Ranger to play with it, even if it was only for a little bit.    

He’d no self-control whatever when it came to Talion. 

“I saw what you did,” the Ranger said, lips almost brushing the back of Ratbag’s grimy neck.  “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

It almost never happened but for a moment there, it had looked like Talion was in trouble.  During the battle recently finished he’d been fighting two Uruk warriors at once, not at all an unusual or difficult feat for him.  The pair were clad in a distinctive elk-antler decorated type of armour that immediately marked them out as being brothers, or similar close-related kin.  A third brother, then a fourth had accosted him.  He’s been fighting all of them when a fifth kinsman, runt of the litter and a fraction of the size of the others, had entered the fray.  This last one mounted a stealth attack.  Crouched close to the ground and running low, he went dodging between the legs of his comrades, preparing to ambush Talion by jumping up at him from below.  Coward or not Ratbag hadn’t stopped to think about it.  He’d bounded, down on all fours straight after the stunted blighter, grappled him to the ground with the others still stamping and fighting around him and cut his throat with the black dagger he’d swiped from the runt’s own knife-sheath.  Afterwards he’d belly-crawled on his elbows, knife still in hand, body low and hugging the ground, straight back out of the fray.  With the odds against him evened Talion  looked like he was coping admirably but he’d had his hands full, and Ratbag didn’t think he’d seen.  He’d thought it best to get out of the Ranger’s way.

“You said you wanted a chance to stand with me and you did.  You needn’t have.  Do you know what would have happened if you hadn’t?”

Ratbag nodded breathlessly.  “That little brute was going to get you.  He’d have _gutted_ you, Ranger, and I – Ratbag couldn’t be having that.”

“If you’d let him strike me you’d have been released from my service.  You’d be a free agent.”

“Released?  Is that what you think?  Ratbag would maybe’ve been released from your service, Ranger, but he’ll never be free.”

“Regardless, you chose to stand with me.”

Ratbag half turned towards him, frowning.  “Wait a minute.  Is _that_ what this is supposed to be?  You telling Ratbag ‘that’ll do, Orc,’ an’ ‘well done?’  Jerk on the leash and bring ‘im to heel, ‘cause now he’s been _such_ a good boy Ranger’s of a mind he’s gonna give him a nice pat on the head?”

“No-one’s patting anyone on the head.”

Ratbag wriggled out from under Talion’s hands and turned and faced him.  “You think you can just decide you want to up and ‘reward’ me when you feel like?  After the way you’ve been wiv’ me lately?  You’ve stopped speaking.  You’ve barely _looked_ at me in ages!”

“I could say the same things back to you,” Talion commented mildly.  “You’ve been avoiding me all week.”

“It’s only been six days!”

“It’s been five,” Talion countered, shaking his head.

“Well?  Ratbag’s not some running-dog, you know, always following you all pathetic-like, going begging after scraps.  That’s _not_ what it’s like.”

(That was _exactly_ what their relationship was like.)

“Ranger.” Ratbag dropped his head and looked at his feet.  “I thought – this – was you finally getting round to deciding you was going to murder me.”

“Why would you think that!”

“Why _wouldn’t_ I?  You get through killing an awful lot of Orcs, don’t you?  You can’t’ve not noticed!”

“Ratbag, I said I wouldn’t hurt you.  Don’t you remember, a week ago –“

“Five days ago!“

“A week or five days, does it matter?  _That night!_  I promised!  And perhaps I have been holding you - at arms’ length, but if I have it’s only because I wouldn’t want you to feel you’re being – coerced.”

When he replied Ratbag’s tone was guarded.  “Why?  What makes you say that?”

Through his eyelashes Ratbag watched Talion’s reaction closely.  After a moment his heart sank like a stone.  Him and Glob-dug.  Ranger had obviously seen, when that pervert had him.  And all this while, Talion had _known_.

Talion shrugged.  “There’s no special reason.”

All this while, Talion had known.  And yet he hadn’t, say, spit on Ratbag, or laughed or jeered or ripped the piss out of Ratbag or done any of the hateful things Ratbag would ordinarily have expected from someone once they learned what Ratbag had had done to him.  Mostly he was just being – the same as he always was, wasn’t he?  Tall.  Rugged.  Handsome.  A bit stand-off-ish.  Darkly handsome.

Except –

Except there was something in the way Talion was looking at him, wide-eyed, with a peculiarly intent sense of focus in his gaze.  You could almost get away with calling it a sort of a _smouldering_ look.  Something was also odd about his posture – there was a certain awkwardness in his stance, and the way he was keeping his lower body turned slightly sideways from Ratbag, as if there was something there he wished to hide.  If Ratbag hadn’t known better he’d have said the Ranger was stood there almost looking like he was feeling sort of….uncomfortably aroused. 

….just like Ratbag was.

The thought came as a revelation.  “You - and me, Ranger.  You want this too?”

Talion groaned aloud.  “Of course I do!”

“Then what for were you frog-marching me at sword-point –“

“Frog-marching?  We’d just been fighting Orcs - you said so yourself!  I kept my sword drawn so I’d be able to protect us.  Myself, as well as you!”

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Enough of this.” Talion’s voice sounded feverish.  “Turn around.”  He guided himself and Ratbag into much the same position he’d placed them in before: the Orc leaning against the wall in front of him, Talion full-length embracing him from the back.  His hand went down the waistband of Ratbag’s breeches and began fisting the Orc’s erection up and down, raw and roughly, with very little finesse.  “That’s it Ratbag,” he whispered, and pressed his mouth hard against the side of Ratbag’s face.  “Oh - Ratbag.  _Yes_.”

The Orc’s nether regions were more sensitive than most, and because of this perhaps the drag and friction were more than he would have liked, but Ratbag was more than adequately equipped to deal with a little raw and rough treatment and since it was Talion he went with it.  And it wasn’t as if there weren’t compensations!  Ranger was pulling his hand with such force on his down-strokes that at times Ratbag was shoved, bodily, back against him.  When that happened sometimes he got to have a brief, fleeting feel of the taut hardness of Talion’s own erection, squashed against his back.  The Ranger was holding it fixed in an unnaturally stationary position and was pointedly, or very politely, _not_ rutting it against him.

Ratbag thought he’d very much have enjoyed a spell of being rutted-against, if it was Talion.   He’d have liked to be able think of a way to get this across to him.

The sensations went on and they were – good, in their way, but all in all it wasn’t quite enough to –

And the thing was, Ratbag was more than ready for his climax.  He desperately _wanted_ to come.

Ratbag was leaning with his weight in his arms, which were braced against the wall in front of him.  Ranger’s left hand was also braced on the same wall.  Not all that far off.

The Orc shifted his hand sideways so it was sort-of nudging against Talion’s, trying do it casually and in such a way that it might well come across as having happened by chance.  The Ranger, however, clasped hold of him at once.  He interlaced his warm fingers with Ratbag’s and held on tightly, keeping his hand covered with his own.

 Ratbag exclaimed out loud.  The sensation had gone jumping up the nerves in his arm, skewering some strange mixture of sweetly intense / painful sensation into his breast as it went and then it shot – most incongruously – straight down to Ratbag’s groin, making his pierced cock jump up and his ring-studded balls contract pleasurably, pleasurably and then more intensely pleasurably till they felt almost fit to burst. 

 _There._   You couldn’t say that hadn’t  – ‘cause that’d _helped_.

Something might also be of more help.  Ratbag twisted his neck round, trying to look over his shoulder.  He wanted to look at Talion; needed in that moment to keep in mind the sight of him.  “Ranger,” he panted, “let me – please let Ratbag –“

Without answering the Ranger hunched down further.  Their height difference, the position Man and Orc were in – it wasn’t easy to accomplish.  Talion pushed his mouth against Ratbag’s regardless, and pressed his lips, dry and firm, to him.  After a moment his lower lip began playing over the rings in Ratbag’s lip, bumping them and rubbing gently.   At the same time Ranger’s hand, on the Orc’s nethers, slowed.  Now he was moving it smoothly, stroking slowly, just the way Ratbag liked best.

The Ranger’s fingers went to the ring that Ratbag had skewered through the end of the length him, and he flicked at it and thumbed it, just the way he’d done before.  The combination of sensations did for Ratbag then.  The Orc heard himself making a pained sort of noise, crushed where he was against Talion’s chest as the rush of his climax overtook him.  He spilled himself with greater force than was usual for him, in a series of exquisitely powerful pulses.  Spatters of it got on his chest.  The stuff ran down to his stomach as it went on and on, Talion’s hand moving insistently, stripping the orgasm out of him.

When at last it was over Talion drew back a little.  Throughout the whole thing he hadn’t for a moment broken eye-contact with Ratbag. He _still_ hadn’t looked away from him.

At such times it was Ratbag’s habit – or, more accurately it had at one point been made Ratbag’s habit – to clean up after himself.  As he turned to face the Talion, he wiped the fluid off his belly and caught some of it in his hand.

Ranger could see what he was thinking and his face went sort of – slack, with desire.   But still he said - “you don’t have to.”

No, Ratbag didn’t have to – or at least not any more he didn’t, and perhaps it was the knowing of it that made the difference.  He put out his tongue and lapped up a long lick of semen.  He didn’t even mind the taste any more, not really.   As soon as he put his back to the wall he’d been leaning on Talion was on him.  The Ranger Ratbag knew was strong and assured; controlled, confident; never for a minute did he falter.  But right now – as Ratbag himself had been - he was trembling.  Ratbag was only too happy to help him unfasten his belt and loosen his leggings.  For a long time Ratbag had been longing for a good look at the secret parts of him.

It wasn’t the first Man’s meat Ratbag had seen; not even the first when it was in an erect state, and apart from the colour, as ever the look and anatomy were very similar to Ratbag’s own.  Minus the Orc’s added-on extras, obviously.  Unlike the other, that Ratbag had occasionally had foisted upon him, this one looked _delectable_.  No doubt about it: Talion had an exceedingly good-looking cock.  Smooth and hard and straight and it was just - _lovely_.  Ratbag shivered as he wondered how it would feel if Talion would let him be fucked by it.

He didn’t touch him right away because Ratbag wasn’t sure about using his hands.  One of them was still dirty with spunk that had just recently been jizzed out by an Orc, for starters, so he bent his head down, preparing to start sucking.  Not just because he wanted to please Talion, but – tit for tat, after all. 

“You can’t!” the Ranger choked out, looking scandalized, as soon as he realized the direction Ratbag’s intentions were taking him.  Although he looked scandalized at the same time he also looked absolutely desperate to have Ratbag put his mouth on him and the thought of it made Ratbag feel dizzy.  At the same time however he had to wonder: Talion being a man of the world and so forth.  Surely that meant at some point in the past someone _would’ve…..to_ him, wouldn’t they? 

He might’ve dearly wanted it but the Ranger meant what he said.  He wouldn’t allow Ratbag to continue. 

They soon reached a compromise.   Ratbag set about finishing him off one-handed, Talion’s length clasped to and rubbing up and down against his chest.  It felt good, holding him there like that.  Sort-of _right_ , to Ratbag somehow, and it also helped distract him from the overly-full, alarming, _brimming_ sensation that had been building in that same region of his body since the moment the Ranger bent down and kissed him.   Yes, Ratbag knew something about kissing.  The mechanics of it at any rate.  He’d just never expected to have anyone want to do it with him.

It didn’t take much and it didn’t take long, and again Ratbag had to wonder: when the last time for the poor, driven, bastard, undead Ranger could have been?  It wasn’t likely he was getting to enjoy a lot of ‘alone time’ was it?  Not with that joyless other bastard of an Elf-wraith forever in his head, forever looking down on the perfectly natural business of – well, of ejaculation.  Ratbag felt a stab of savage satisfaction at the thought of having chased Celebrimbor off through the insult he’d delivered the Elf simply by existing.  Let’s see ol’ glow-in-the-dark-head try and ghost-cock-block Talion now!   And after a moment, Talion’s climax did come.  All at once his breath went unsteady.  He was shaking all over as his hands seized Ratbag’s shoulders, and a convulsive rush of heat and wetness flooded Ratbag’s fingers and splashed across his throat.  It was – and it felt –

Pretty damn fantastic to Ratbag, actually.  Still, when he looked up at the Ranger he did it – warily.  Quite often in Ratbag’s experience this would be the point at which his partner – whoever it was - might decide it was time to kick him away or fling jizz at him; that, or perhaps punch him in the face.

Talion, however, did none of those things.  He helped Ratbag to straighten up and proceeded to wipe him down with his hands.  

Afterwards Ratbag wasn’t sure what made him do it.   He went up on tip-toe; for a moment pressed his mouth to Talion’s.   For a moment the Ranger pressed back.  His breath felt warm on Ratbag’s face and his lips were much softer than the Orc would’ve imagined.  Of all the things he’d imagined might happen between them – and he’d never once thought of something like this. 

Ranger closed his eyes. 

It was too much for Ratbag.  He broke the kiss and backed away.

Still, he had to know.  “Did I – did Ratbag do that right?”

Talion put his hand on Ratbag’s shoulder, then moved it up to his face.  His fingers carded through the dark strands of beard that hung from the Orc’s jawline.  The hair there was coarse and straight and didn’t mesh together properly.  Ratbag, who had always thought it was more like the beard of a billy-goat than anything that would be seen on a Dwarf or a Man, couldn’t think of any reason for anyone to want to touch it.  His Ranger, however, didn’t seem to mind.

“…that’ll do, don’t you think, Orc?” Talion told him.  His voice was grave but there were crinkles of merriment playing around his eyes.  Ratbag looked back at him in wonder. He couldn’t see a single scrap of malice in them.

“Yes, Ranger,” Ratbag said.  “That’ll do.”

 

TBC

Lovely Sauntervaguely has drawn some illustrations showing some of the content from this chapter, which you can see [here](http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/166206410025).  Part of the content, wonderful though it is, is NSFW.


	5. His sword's broken

 

It had been raining for hours.  It still wasn’t letting up. 

There might be enough time.

The last few days they’d – been together.  Ratbag didn’t know what you’d call it, apart from that.  In the evenings, if there was dinner.  After they’d eaten but before Talion went to sleep.  If they were going to – be together, that would likely be when.  And afterwards Ratbag, who didn’t take that kind of rest would spend the remainder of the night standing watch over him.  Though that interaction, to be fair was more like Ratbag sitting or standing and watching Talion, because for some reason – and he couldn’t’ve said why, exactly  – Ratbag could never seem to get enough of just _looking_ at him.  Not that that meant he wasn’t taking his guard-duties seriously while he was doing it. The Orc’s hearing and sense of smell and night-vison were all uncannily acute, and he had a fine-honed sense for impending danger too.

Sometimes it even happened in the daytime, if there’d been a break from the endless questing.  Or if, say, the weather was foul and wouldn’t let up.  At those times Ratbag and his Ranger they’d – do things, together.  More often admittedly, it was Talion – _doing things_ – to him.

He’d bend Ratbag over or prop him up or lie him down or spread him out on something.  Talion would start by putting his large, warm, Orc-slaughtering hands on Ratbag and he’d end by wringing an orgasm out of him.  Sometimes he did it quickly.  Other times the Ranger would make Ratbag wait, and wait - and _wait_ \- for it, and all the while he’d be looking on intently.  At these times, there'd invariably be a great deal of eye-contact between them: Talion would look Ratbag in the eyes and watch as he made Ratbag come for him.

And afterwards, sometimes they’d do – other stuff.  Ratbag would do - _it_ – to Talion.  But that wasn’t always.  It wasn’t even most of the time, really. 

The Ranger was always completely in command of their situation and sometimes – not all the time, but sometimes – it made him feel like he was Talion’s plaything.  Not that Ratbag was complaining.  It wouldn’t have occurred to him to think of complaining about that side of things.

That evening it was raining – a heavy, ceaseless downpour, and the Ranger and the Orc had taken shelter in a derelict building they’d come upon, isolated on an hillside.  There was next to nothing to it, only four remaining walls, and about half of the roof. And the floor.  The Ranger was wet through and looking more than usually grim, and Ratbag had used some shards of fallen roof-beam to light a fire in the relatively-sheltered part.  They were exposed and in view up there, and he had been careful to quickly bank it down into a long bed of flame-free, glowing coals.    

Since their arrival Talion had been sitting by one of its narrow open window-spaces, alternately taking inventory of his weapons and keeping watch across the valley below.

The light outside was fading and a hill-fog that hid them from the valley bottom was rolling in.  Like as not that meant they’d be stopping over for the night.  And in the morning -  

In the morning, Talion’s plans would be afoot.  He’d found the location of an Uruk Warchief, the one whose deceased bodyguard Ratbag was in position to replace.  That meant they’d not be travelling together any longer.  In the morning would come a parting of their ways.

It was their last night together and Ratbag couldn’t get enough him.  They were running out of time.

So he approached the Ranger cautiously, crouched down on his haunches, creeping forward almost on his hands and knees.

Talion set his blade and whetstone down.  “Something I can do for you, Orc?”

The thing about Talion was there _was_ no hidden meaning in his words, nor was he being arch.  He was asking only because he genuinely wanted Ratbag to tell him.

But where to begin?

“Ranger,” he began.  It seemed as good a place as any.  “When they call you that name.  ‘Gravewalker.’  How did you get it?”

Talion gave him one of his slight, sad smiles.  “I was given that name because I’m cursed.  I should be dead, but have been banished from death.  The curse means I cannot take my place and live a normal life alongside mortal men, nor can I die.”

He wouldn’t’ve asked if he didn’t want to know, but when he heard that something warm and vital of Ratbag’s felt like it was sort of – _dwindling;_  like it was crumpling into a cold, dense knot inside of him.  That was because naturally he knew, deep down that what Talion was saying made perfect sense.  Ratbag thanked his lucky stars that many years of violence – all of his past experience - had more than adequately trained him in the art of giving nothing at all away in the face of pain and adversity for it stood him in good stead now.  Talion had delivered his knock-back out of nowhere, and Ratbag hadn’t for a moment seen anything like it coming.

With an effort the Orc managed to keep his face neutral and his voice steady.  “So that’s why –“

Talion looked up at him frowning.  “So that’s why – what.”  As he looked at him he saw that the Orc’s expression had become fixed.  He’d coloured up slightly, and there was a new pinched and strained look playing round his nose and at the sides of his mouth.  For some reason this made Talion think of the time he’d fixed his arm; when Ratbag, in spite of having been in a considerable amount of pain was stubbornly refusing to acknowledge it. 

Ratbag hugged his arms across his chest.  “That’s why – you, and me, isn’t it.  Any port in a storm.”

“Ratbag?  What d’you mean?”

The little Uruk bared his teeth in an unhappy grin.  ‘ _Can’t take my place and live among normal men.’_   You couldn’t say Talion hadn’t told it to him straight.

“It’s ‘cause you think you’re not fit to be with anybody else,” he said.  His orange eyes looked very bright. 

“No,” Talion interrupted, and then said, more forcefully – “Orc?  _No!_  That _isn’t_ right –“

“You needn’t worry!  I don’t – that’s - I mean _Ratbag_ doesn’t mind.  It’s - fine, Ranger.  Why else - _would_ you, I mean someone like you, want to be bovvered with – wiv’ subhuman _scum_ \- like me anyway?  It’s all right.”

Talion stared at Ratbag, feeling at a loss.  And there were many things he could have tried to tell him. ‘ _Why would I bother with you?”_ he could’ve said. _“Because I’ve seen how your fellow-Orcs treat you Ratbag, and it’s obvious to me you’ve never had anyone deal with you decently for even a minute of your miserable life.’_  

Or, Talion might have told him: ‘ _Because like it or not, we’re stuck in this madness together.  And I’d not have believed it was possible, but sometimes it catches me off-guard and I find myself thinking there’s something almost_ appealing _about you.’_

 _‘And perhaps most of all it’s because – I_ enjoy _being kind to you.  How taken by surprise you are, every time it happens; you don’t know how much pleasure it brings me when I see that.  My choice is between that and revenge, Ratbag, and you’re one of the few things I have left.’_

Talion, however, didn’t say any of it.  Instead he went and crouched next to Ratbag.  “The night the Gate fell,” he told him, “the Black Hand and the others made a blood-rite.  I had a family in those days.  Did you know that?”

Ratbag didn’t.  He shook his head. 

“I had a family and I failed in my duty to protect them.  They made me watch as he killed my wife and my son in front of me.  They crushed my hand and he cut my throat.  I was on my way to join my family and I welcomed it, Ratbag.  I was dying - I could feel my life run out as it left me, and that was when the Elf-Lord came.  Celebrimbor came and he did –  _this_ to me.  There is only one way to break the curse that binds us.  To be free to follow death I must kill the one who cast it.”  

“The Black Hand.”  A chill ran down the little Uruk’s back as he spoke that dreadful name. 

“The Black Hand.  Yes. That's the one.  And I still feel it,“ Talion continued, “the wounds, from that night.  Here.”  He took hold of the Orc’s hand and pressed it to the centre of his palm, “and _here_ ,” he said, moving Ratbag’s fingers in a slow line from side to side under his chin.  “Here, at the place they cut when they opened up my throat.”

Ratbag eyed him warily, and chose his next words with care.  “Do you?   But there’s, ah – nothing I can see there, Ranger.”

“I know.  I know,” Talion said.  “When I next woke I was in the Wraith-world, and both injuries were gone.  But I still feel them, running deep under my skin.”

“Does it – does it still _hurt_?”

The Ranger’s smile was grim.  “Not any more.”

Ratbag’s pointed ears twitched as he thought, furiously, over what Talion had said.  “If you’re ‘banished from death.’  Does that mean - are you’re saying you can’t _die_?”

Talion nodded.

“Come on now Ranger, I’ve seen you get hurt!  When those two guards were clobbering you.  And injured –“

“I can be hurt but not injured – or at least I can’t be injured mortally.  One of those ‘avenues’ unluckily enough, remains open to me.”

“So that’s why – ‘Gravewalker’.”

“Yes.”

“Does anybody else know about this?”

“I don’t know,” Talion acknowledged, “I don’t know.  But now _you_ know - what there is to know about me.  And if it means anything to you Ratbag, I’ve never spoken about this with another, living soul.” 

The Orc just looked at him.  “What makes you want to tell Ratbag?”

“Who else would want to know?”

Ratbag scratched his head.  “Your Elf-Lord.  Wouldn’t he  –“

“Celebrimbor has - preoccupations, and a vendetta, of his own.  Who else could I tell who would _care_ , Ratbag?”

Ratbag stared.  “You think I feel – like I care about you?....Ranger?  _Do_ you?”

The Ranger shrugged.  “Sometimes I think you might.  Sometimes, when I catch that way you have of looking at me.”

His companion went very still.   “And what ‘ _way’s’_ that?”

( _Devoted.  Unswerving_.  _Dog-like_.)

“As if you would do anything you could for me, and I’d only have to ask.”

Ratbag subsided.  They both knew it was true, what Talion was saying to him: _of course_ Ratbag would.  “So you’re stuck here,” he said.  “You’re telling me you’re _not_ free.”

When Talion didn’t answer the Orc crept closer.  “Like Ratbag.  You’re saying you’re just the same as me.” 

Talion put his arms around Ratbag and pulled him to his chest, tucking the Orc’s head firmly in beneath his chin.  “Am I?  Perhaps.  You could be right there, Ratbag.  Perhaps.”

They stayed like that for a moment.

At length Talion unfastened his cloak, and spread it on the floor.  The outer layer was wet from the rain but the inside remained dry and still carried the warmth of him.   He guided the unresisting Ratbag onto his back on top of it.  The Ranger stretched out, propped on one elbow, lying next to and partly over him.   

“Here, Orc,” he said, beckoning Ratbag.  “Time for your next lesson.”

With his hand on Ratbag’s jaw, Talion guided his face into the just the right position. He ran his fingers over the ring in Ratbag’s nose, then moved them to the ones piercing his lip, touching and exploring gently.  Then he kissed him with a sweet, chaste kiss on the lips. 

It made Ratbag feel like he was unravelling.

“Very good, Orc,” Talion whispered, barely breaking contact, very close against his skin. “Now close your eyes.”  He waited until Ratbag complied, then pushed his thumb between Ratbag’s lips and a little way into his mouth. “Open,” the Ranger instructed, rubbing his thumb back and forth, teasingly, very slowly, along the sharp points of his teeth.  He followed that with a long leisurely swipe of his tongue, licking across Ratbag’s partly-open mouth, all the way from side to side.

He held Ratbag’s head steady, one hand clasping under his jaw, across his throat. 

Ratbag wondered if Talion could feel his racing heartbeat, hammering away at the pulse-point under his thumb.

“Now, Orc.  Now you do - the same - to me.” 

Stretching up to reach him, Ratbag did it.  He kissed him, and as Talion began to kiss back, felt a delightful spread of warmth run through him, from the top of his scalp right down to the bottom of his toes.  He kissed him. 

They kept on kissing.

“That’s right, Ratbag,” Talion told him, after what felt like a very long time of this.  It wasn't long enough for Ratbag, however.  He hadn’t wanted it – the open-mouthed kissing -  to _ever_ finish.  “That’s just right.” 

Ratbag drew back himself then, out of breath and feeing acutely self-conscious.  His eyelids, with their sparse and scrotty eyelashes were - very incongruously - all a-flutter and he was struck by a keen sense of how utterly ridiculous he must look.  On top of it, he had no idea where to put his hands and after a few seconds of indecision, tried resting one of them lightly on Talion’s breastplate.  The Ranger had taken his cape off but was still wearing all of his clothing and armour. 

Now, before he’d approached him Ratbag had taken all of his outer gear off, because well, with Talion, you never knew where subsequent events might end up taking you.  But the Ranger as ever, had remained completely clothed.  That that didn’t _irk_ Ratbag exactly.  Ratbag didn’t think it likely that anything Talion did could ever cause him to become ‘irked.’

 _But_. 

But, that was hardly playing fair, was it?  Talion had had him, Ratbag, stripped completely bollock-naked and squirming on his back since – well, since the very first occasion they’d started on this – whatever you wanted call it.  _Literally_ since day one.

“Ranger, I –“ Ratbag fidgeted with his claws at the embossed buckle that crossed the middle of Talion’s chest.  It made a slight metallic, scraping sound. 

“Yes?”

“Ratbag was wondering what you’d think about maybe taking some of this – ‘gubbins’ – off.”

Talion looked, if anything, pleasantly surprised by what he’d said.  “Orc?” he said.  “Would you like that?  Do you want me to?”

As Ratbag nodded he began removing his vambraces and weapons harness.  Then the breast-plate.  Off went his pauldrons, tunic, greaves – the lot of it, till he was down to his torn undershirt, boots, belt and breeches – and then he removed them, too.

Previously Ratbag had only been able to catch isolated glimpses of the whole.  The Ranger’s face and head, and the upper part of his right arm where his tunic-sleeve was missing; the areas he usually left uncovered.  Once, when Talion was cleaning himself Ratbag had gotten to see a curve of Talion’s white-skinned back and a caught sight - for a split-second - of his stomach.

He reckoned that that still counted.  Those were the parts of him with which Ratbag was already more or less acquainted.    

That and the Ranger’s spear-shaft and his hanging packet, of course.  Talion had let him come to grips with _those_ at least once or twice that he could think, these past few nights.

Talion usually, was in complete command of any situation but as he finished undressing, he kept his eyes cast to the ground.  When he met Ratbag’s gaze it was with an odd, almost uncertain look. His eyes were wide and soft and his face was flushed.  Ratbag realized that the Ranger was blushing, slightly.

Ratbag looked him up and down with his mouth hanging open.  He had long legs and broad shoulders.   Slimmer hips.  Muscles; a beautifully-muscled chest.  Yes, every part of him was muscled, beautifully.  And there was a light covering of soft, dark hair on his legs and forearms, with more hair on his chest.  A thin trail of it led down the middle of his stomach, past his navel and on down to his groin.  He was – Talion was all Ratbag would’ve thought he would be, and more.  And he wasn’t just handsome.  His Ranger was handsome _all over_.

The sight of him – and Ratbag couldn’t think. 

“….I’m glad you think so,” Ranger said.  He was still blushing.

Did that mean Ratbag must’ve said – what he’d just been thinking - to Talion out loud?  If so he didn’t think he’d meant to.

For a moment the little Uruk was completely wrong-footed because speaking wasn’t – Ratbag knew that at times like this, he wasn’t supposed to speak, on account of the rules.  These would be the rules he’d had ingrained in him by the Man who’d once had hold of him, the pervert he’d run away from, many years before.  The pervert’s rules stated that Ratbag wasn’t permitted to speak, or look up from the ground, or to move much of a muscle for as long as the pervert was doing - whatever he was doing to him.  In practice that meant anything the sadistic bastard wanted, and all of it was on pain of Ratbag having another ring – yet another _fucking ring_ – skewered into his stick.  That was what he got for trying to escape from the pervert, for cocking up - or for disobeying, and as the state of his meat only too well attested, at that point Ratbag had not been particularly much of a fast learner.  With time however, he’d managed to absorb a portion of his lessons….sufficiently. 

It was just as well.  Towards the end there, the pervert had been in danger of running out of space.

Ratbag ground his teeth and forcibly _made_ himself remember that this was Talion.  Talion, his Ranger, who was _nothing like_ the pervert and it was _not_ the same in _any way_ and he was _damned_ if he was going to let that pervert ruin this for him, too. 

And a sudden thought came to Ratbag as looked at the Ranger’s tired, careworn, worried face.  Of course you’d have to put his constant quest for vengeance, and habitual Orc-killing, aside, if you could.  But unlike the other one, who might’ve looked pretty enough until you got to know him, Talion was handsome on the inside, too.   Poor Ratbag mightn’t have realized it till this moment, because _of course_ he had no idea what it would be like and how could he?  But now the Orc knew with all the certainty he had in him that he loved –

That he was _head-over-heels_ in love, with  –

“Ratbag?” Talion’s voice, full of concern, broke in on Ratbag’s train of thought, utterly derailing it.   “You’re staring, Ratbag,” he said.  “Are you all right?”

Ratbag shook himself.  “Yes, Ranger.”

The Ranger smiled at him with one of his kind, rare smiles. “You know, Ratbag, sometimes you could try calling me ‘Talion,’" he said.  "If you thought you wanted to.  If you wished.”

“You mean – at times like this?” Ratbag said, eyeing him suspiciously.  He was doing his best to decipher the hidden meaning behind Talion’s words only to find, as usual, that there wasn’t any. 

“At times like this, and other times, and – any time you feel you want to, really.”

Ratbag watched him warily, but as far as he could tell, Talion’s words were sincere. 

The Ranger was still smiling and it was only for Ratbag; a smile meant for no-one else but him. 

Ratbag made his decision.  “All right, then – Talion,” he said. 

Then Ratbag went to him.

 

TBC


	6. Handsome all over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful and talented artists SaunterVaguely and editedcopycat have both drawn some utterly gorgeous and highly recommended pieces of artwork that accompany this chapter and are available here:
> 
> http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/163347652465  
> You should probably note that this beautiful thing, in all of its beauty is NSFW.
> 
> http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/163623737745  
> Neither is this excellent and highly diverting image
> 
> Or the following two lovely, lovely things: 
> 
> https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/313805948672147457/330424688444440578/NOTSAFEFORWORK.jpg  
> https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/313805948672147457/335481668942954506/geez.jpeg
> 
> http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/163812412475  
> But if your workplace employers are OK with you looking at pictures of Rangers and Orcs embracing so adorably it might make you want to start to cry, you should be OK with this one.
> 
> There are clickable links to each at the end of the chapter.

The rain was still falling on their shelter’s broken roof.

Inside where the Orc and Ranger were sheltering it was dry and warm, lit by a steady orange glow from the coals of their fire.

This time it was different.  It wasn’t Talion standing on the side-lines watching Ratbag this time, because this time they were doing – what they were doing – together.

The Ranger, seemingly, had shed his air of control and reserve in the same way that he’d taken off his boots and armour, scattered items of which were still lying where he’d thrown them, abandoned on the floor.  And as to what being with him, like this, was like, it felt like – and it was –

Absolutely not the right time for Ratbag to be thinking up silly similes, that was for sure.

Talion had started kissing Ratbag as soon as he’d come to him; honest, ardent kisses falling onto the Orc’s mouth and all over his face.  He took hold of Ratbag’s hands and pulled him closer; Ratbag was now sitting in the Ranger’s _lap_ , practically.

“Ratbag!” he said.  “Kiss me - along here.”

“Along….the place your scar would be….if you had one?”

“Yes, Ratbag.  _Yes_.  Did I not - maybe I didn’t tell you so before.  You know, don’t you, that it doesn’t have to be -  kissing - only on the mouth?”

How would Ratbag have known that?  The thought had never even occurred to him.  “Kissing - like on the neck, then?”

“Yes,” Talion nodded. “‘Kissing like on the neck’- that’s right.  Here, I’ll show you.  You do it - like this.”

It was like no other kiss that Ratbag had so far received in his - admittedly limited, kissing-career.  Talion’s lips as he bent his head to him were firm, and kneaded insistently at his skin.  There was unbearable soft suction and wetness; the warmth of his mouth and at times Ratbag could feel the blunt edges of his teeth -  

“Oh -!”  Ratbag’s eyes fluttered shut. “ _Oh_.”  By the time Talion let go of him he was swooning with it; dazed and limp and honestly felt he could’ve _swooned_.  It took an effort but he got a hold of himself and paused for a moment, just to check his facts:

“So should I  – should Ratbag be doing that back to you?”

The Ranger certainly wasn’t telling him _not_ to.

So Ratbag put a tentative press of his lips to Talion’s neck, landing it just at the angle of his jaw.  Talion immediately craned his neck and closed his eyes. 

That was more than good enough for Ratbag.  All right, then. 

The Orc began moving his mouth across Talion’s throat, tracing the line where his scar would be - if he had one; licking, sucking, biting gently.  And the sound the Ranger made -!  It was obvious, now, how sensitive he was there.  Ratbag squirreled it away as one of the best things ever; knowing that he, Ratbag, had made him – the Ranger, always so dour, taciturn and stern – make a breathless noise of pleasure like that.  Ratbag would never in a million years have credited it.

He wasn’t able to help himself.  “That feels – good, to you Ranger, does it?”

Talion nodded vigorously, with that same warm, soft look he’d had on him - and not just in his eyes this time, but written all across his face.  Ratbag went back to kissing him, following Talion as the Ranger lay down till he was reclining on his back. 

His kisses got much the same reaction they had before.

The Orc spent a moment simply looking at him: at Talion lying on his back on his cloak by the light of Ratbag’s fire, with the sound of the rain drumming down on the roof and – the sight of him!  Talion was aroused, and ready, and it went straight to Ratbag’s head to think of it being all on account of Ratbag.  Just for him. 

“Ranger – “ Ratbag directed a quick, searching look up and down the Ranger’s body.  “Now Ranger, what was that you were telling Ratbag, about kissing – in other places, before?”   Thinking better of it he looked him straight in the eyes, reached down between Talion’s legs and stroked him, kneading and teasing with his fingers up and down his shaft.  He knew his Ranger could sometimes be a little slow on the uptake when these things were concerned and did that as a back-up, to make his meaning perfectly clear.  

Short of requesting that Talion send him advance written notice of his acceptance, Ratbag didn’t know what else he could do to check he had understood his intention.

Far from it: the look on Talion’s face when Ratbag did it told Ratbag _everything_ , really; everything he needed to know.  But still the Ranger persevered, determined as ever, to do the decent thing.  “Surely there’s no way you’d want to,” he muttered, awkwardly.

And Ratbag thought that at times his Ranger could be a truly daft Gravewalking bugger, at times for example such as – this, if he really couldn’t see what was right in front of him, and how much Ratbag _absolutely_ would want to.

Or maybe it simply confirmed what Ratbag had suspected, that Talion had neither done this, nor had this done to him before. 

That was fine, because Ratbag knew he had enough experience to cover both of them; and, because there were only a limited number of places an Orc, or a Man - or a pervert - was ever likely to attempt to stick his dick into Ratbag, it counted an over-abundance of experience, actually.  But even _that_ was all right – or at least it was in this context, because that meant it was now Ratbag’s turn to show Talion a thing or two.  Ratbag’s pleasure to see to him really, because Talion was – so, so pretty, down below.  Ratbag had the Ranger part his legs so he had space to get in between and have a proper go at him.  He knelt down and got close and started kissing all the way up and down the beautiful length of him; but in spite of Ratbag’s best efforts, the Ranger had retained some of his early misgivings.

“You’ve done enough of that now, Ratbag” he’d say, “we can stop;” this, even as Talion’s hands were gripping tight onto Ratbag’s shoulders, pulling him ever more close.  Or: “you know we can stop at any time –“

“ _Oh! Ratbag!_ “ (that was Ranger practically jumping into the air and right off his cloak after the Orc, deciding he’d had enough faffing around, just swallowed him down properly, deep into his throat)

“- we’ll stop.  You know that, don’t you?”

Mixed messages.  That’s what Talion was sending Ratbag.  Mixed messages, at best.

Still, he had some serious misconceptions if he was thinking Ratbag didn’t want to be doing _exactly_ what he was doing.  And the taste of him – he was _lovely._  Talion obviously had no idea.  Ratbag put all the effort he had in him into getting this right.  The idea of Talion allowing Ratbag to do this, of him letting Ratbag get this close to him, gave Ratbag butterflies in the pit of his stomach.

Over the years Ratbag had done – or had had to do – a fair bit of this; sucking cock for fun when the fancy took him, other times under duress, flat on his back or hanging tied hand and foot off something – or of course the old favourite: down on his knees.  Enough of it so Ratbag reckoned he knew all the signs, and they were now at a point at which he was pretty certain that Talion was gearing up to imminently come into his mouth.   And it was Talion so really, he was – fine with it.  Although that said, even if it hadn’t been Talion, he’d have had to be.  In the Orc’s experience there wasn’t a lot that could persuade a Man – or an Orc, or whoever, once he’d reached this stage, to stop.  

This time Talion however, _made_ him stop. As the Ranger carefully, insistently, got him to leave off and pulled Ratbag up into his arms, Ratbag regarded him with a wary look, wondering if maybe he’d gotten carried away - that or somehow forgotten to be careful with his teeth.

“Ratbag!” the Ranger exclaimed. 

He looked - _elated_.  

Now, in Ratbag’s experience it wasn’t usual for anyone, experiencing circumstances such as Talion had very recently experienced to look quite so happy about it, and so his reaction came as an pleasant, if unexpected  surprise.  Talion looked as if he feeling – _overwhelmed,_ even - and Ratbag was suddenly shy under it, under the Ranger’s earnest, exhilarated gaze. 

The thought occurred to Ratbag that if he did enough of this, and could get Talion to keep looking at Ratbag the way he was currently looking at him then, with luck, maybe someday he might even get to the point that he could make himself believe that his Ranger loved him back a little bit.

It wouldn’t have to be all the time.  Ratbag knew better than to expect an outrageously unlikely outcome like that.  But being able to pretend about it sometimes.  If they only had more time.  _If_ _only_.  Ratbag would’ve been more than happy with the prospect of that. 

Talion rolled Ratbag onto his back and cradled his face. The he kissed him with a soft, passionate kiss that made Ratbag’s heart flutter, kissing deep into Ratbag’s mouth.   The Orc knew exactly what he was doing, kissing Ratbag at a time like this, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the Ranger’s gesture.  It was kindly meant.  And it was easy to forget, but beneath his sorrow and grief, and the weight of his interminable revenge-questing and Wraith-possession -

Talion was a kind man.  Or he had been, once; before the Black Hand and Celebrimbor; before the awful things that between them they had done to him.

And Ratbag could see it; not just at times – like now – when Talion had been ready to go but could see Ratbag was not, and so out of kindness had held back for him.  Underneath it all he was so kind and – _good_ – and the thought of having to leave Talion after he’d only just found him sent Ratbag nearly frantic.

It was as if he’d stepped outside the moment.  The Orc mentally shook himself, realizing that in the meantime Ranger had taken it upon himself to take down Ratbag’s breeches.  He was now touching Ratbag’s half-hard stick, gently examining the rings in it; something Ratbag invariably enjoyed, and yet here Ratbag was mooning about being such a silly arse over things he couldn’t alter he’d very nearly _missed_ it. 

Live for the present!  It was, of course, the only Orcish way.

Talion, meanwhile, was speaking.

“These…..don’t come out,” he was saying, “do they.”

“No, ‘cause they’re –“ Ratbag showed a self-conscious flash of his teeth – “kind of _magical_ rings, aren’t they?”

Ratbag felt himself colouring up furiously.  He knew full well how it sounded.

“Magical rings.”

“Well, yeah, that’s what they are, ’cause they’ve got no seam to them - see?  Him who put them there fancied himself as sort of a….necromancer.  And he…..sealed them in, didn’t he?  To make me - so Ratbag wouldn’t forget.”

“’He?’” the Ranger said, all at once looking grim. “...’Him?’”

Ratbag shook his head unhappily.  He categorically did _not_ want to talk about the pervert to Talion - or to anyone else.

“Do they – do they _hurt_ you –“

Ratbag could hear Talion’s concern for him in his voice and bared his teeth in a sickly grin.  “No Ranger,” he said.  “There’s no need to worry - they don’t hurt Ratbag.  Not any more.”  He didn’t want to have to think about the pervert or anything the pervert had done and so he stretched his neck up to Talion, hoping for another kiss. 

The Ranger’s face softened.  He kissed him.  Ratbag arched his back as Talion’s hand went stroking down his belly.  He strained up to meet him and squirmed, impatiently, more than ready now for Ranger to commence manhandling his meat.  Talion, however, didn’t do it.  Instead he shifted his weight so he was lying right on top Ratbag, covering the Orc’s body with his own.  Admittedly, it wasn’t a complete success at first, chiefly because Ratbag was short as Talion was tall; but after Talion shifted position – and then had to hunch his back and go up on his elbows to reach, he managed to get them lined up correctly: so his glorious erection was lying right next to, and nudging against, Ratbag’s upstanding stick. 

If Ratbag squinted down the space between their bodies he could justabout see the two of them together: his meat, Talion’s shaft; lying on Ratbags’ stomach, side by side.  He thought it looked – well!  It did.  It looked _ridiculously_ erotic.

 _That_ was more like it.

“All right then, Ratbag,” the Ranger said.  “Let’s see if we can’t find something we can do with these ‘magical rings’ of yours.”  He was doing a valiant job of keeping his face straight, but there was something – Ratbag couldn’t quite place it – a hint of something in his voice, that Ratbag could also see in his eyes.  It was as if he was _fond_ , of Ratbag and also _amused_ by Ratbag, both at the same time and Ratbag knew that he wasn’t laughing at him exactly -

 ‘Fondly amused’.  Ratbag relaxed.  He could live with that.  Talion was trying his best not to show it, and it wasn’t as if he could help it.  Ratbag supposed their situation did contain _elements_ of the absurd.  

The Ranger took hold of the Orc’s hand and guided it down between them.  “Here, Ratbag,” he said, “help me.  Let’s see if we can’t -”

He broke off from talking then because he’d taken hold of Ratbag just as Ratbag grasped hold of him.  They moved together, him over and Ratbag under for a time, skin sliding on skin.  Ranger’s eyes went out of focus for a moment.

Ratbag didn’t blame him.  He was also losing focus.  What the two of them were doing - it felt _lovely_.

They carried on some more.  For another long, exquisite period of Ratbag being pinned down and spread out and rubbed against. 

“Ratbag,” Talion gasped eventually.  “ _Ratbag_.  You know that things are going to be - different – in the morning.”

Ratbag froze.  Seriously?  Couldn’t Talion have picked a better moment to tell Ratbag he wanted to break up with him?  He squinted up at the Ranger.  “Yeah?”

Talion had also stopped moving.  He was lying on top of Ratbag, shaking slightly.  With tension, probably.

“In the morning we…..won’t be able to see as much of one another.”

 _Why_ was he bringing that up at a time like this?

“And – I want to hear you say it one more time.  What you said to me that night, before.”

That was _not_ what Ratbag had been expecting.  Blinking at Talion he rested his claws on the Ranger’s broad chest and watched him cautiously.  There was sweat standing on his brow and his breathing had gone funny.  Ratbag waited, counting out a measured set of heartbeats. 

“You’ll have to help me, Ranger,” he told him at the end of it.  “You – you had to help Ratbag to get it right last time, didn’t you?  And Ratbag’s not sure he’ll be able to remember – all how it goes.”

When his guard was down Talion’s emotions were easy for Ratbag to read. Even sometimes when Talion’s guard _wasn’t_ down –

Talion groaned and dropped his head and rested it for a moment on Ratbag’s shoulder.  When he raised it again his face was congested and his eyes were dark with passion; it was obviously an effort for him but the Ranger made himself speak.  

“ _Ratbag_ ,” he grated out, “you’re my Orc.   _Mine._  You’re mine and you know it.  You  - _belong_ to me.”  He caught hold of Ratbag’s throat and held him by it, not gently, forcing eye-contact.  “Now you say it.  Ratbag.  _Please_.”

Ratbag’s mind went blank.  His brain felt like it had short-circuited, and he was – lost in the depths of Talion’s eyes, or something.  Yes, he was lost, literally.

“Ratbag?” The world rushed back as Ratbag realized his Ranger was saying it to him at the point of his frigging _orgasm,_ whatever _that_ meant; he was holding back from coming as he waited for Ratbag to take his turn and there was no reason at all for Ratbag to even have to think about it.

“Yes, Ranger,” Ratbag told him, nodding breathlessly, still looking straight at him, “ _yes_ Talion, I belong to you.  And –“

It was the longest of long shots, but Ratbag went for it.

“You’re mine, Ranger,” the Orc suggested, very tentatively.  He pried Talion’s hand from his throat, brought it to his lips and kissed it.  Then he pressed it close against his face.  “You’re Ratbag’s……aren’t you?”    

Talion’s eyes went wide with surprise and he caught his breath.  He strained mightily towards Ratbag, muscles hard and taught against him and his mouth dropped opened and closed again, without forming words. 

And then Talion sort of _lurched_ against Ratbag, a frantic movement that had no composure or control whatsoever in it.  He ground himself furiously against his own hand, and Ratbag’s hand and the rings in his knob and that was it; Ratbag himself was done for, too.  But already he’d heard him.  Just before another of those sounds broke from Talion, one of those wonderful, pained noises of pleasure halfway between a groan and a sob that Ratbag had only just discovered he could get Talion to make, he’d pressed his mouth to the side of the Orc’s face. 

Ratbag had felt his Ranger’s lips trembling against his cheek as he breathed out his answer for him. 

Ranger’s words were breathless and faint, but Ratbag’s hearing was acute.  He knew he had heard Talion quite clearly. 

_‘Yes, Ratbag.  I’m yours.’_

That was what he’d told him.

 

TBC

 

 

The wonderful SaunterVaguely's vision of some of the events from this chapter - that I whole-heartedly ascribe to, a gazillion percent - and can be seen [here](http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/163347652465) and [here](http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/163623737745) and [here](http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/163812412475)  (the first two being NSFW)

And editedcopycat's gorgeous take on some of the content, that again, is now 100% 'canon' for the story and exactly, EXACTLY what  happened would've looked like is [here](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/313805948672147457/330424688444440578/NOTSAFEFORWORK.jpg) and [here](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/313805948672147457/335481668942954506/geez.jpeg), and again, just to let you know, both pics are probably best being considered as NSFW.


	7. Pointy things stuck in him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as you see I’ve gone with a soap-opera-ish ‘amnesia’ plot-line with this one. Also mind-control and brain-washing! Black Hand’s game-canon’s specialities, that! (Assuming anyone's counting)

 

It was past time for it.  They’d said he would be made to do it quickly.  Ratbag swung his head heavily and looked over his shoulder.  _Definitely_ past time.  Fear and apprehension and impatience gnawed at him.  He didn’t want to have to do it but they said he was the one and he _had_ to.  He’d been _compelled_ to do it, otherwise –

He just wanted to get it over with.  And they’d _said_.

In his agitation he paced a few dragging steps forward, till the jerk on the leash round his neck stopped him.  Ratbag retraced his steps in the other direction until the same thing happened at the other end.   With his back bowed, he paced the few steps back.  Back and forth he went.  Back and forth and back and forth.  He still hurt all over and it felt anything but soothing, but his repetitive movements, together with the sound of the snap of the links of the chain each time it pulled tight and even the yank round his neck from his collar formed a sequence that was, if nothing else, eminently predictable.

Without at least a little predictability to rely on in his environment, by now Ratbag would probably’ve run completely _mad_. 

(It was ever at the back of his mind however that that might well have already happened.)

He was chained by an iron shackle round his neck to a stake that was hammered, not even all that firmly, into the ground.

As Ratbag was well aware, its purpose was mainly symbolic.  

The length of the chain wasn’t sufficient to allow the Orc to straighten up properly.  That was one of the reasons he’d been pacing with his back bent.  The other was that his balance was off.  Some time previously he’d taken an almighty blow to the head.  From a mace. 

From a _demonic_ mace, no less.

The impact had picked Ratbag up and knocked him off his feet, gravely damaging or rupturing something vital on the inside.  Whenever he tried to stand up straight now, the little Uruk invariably listed over to one side. 

The state he was in there was no way, there was _no conceivable way_ he was going to be able to fight -

He stopped in his tracks for a moment and stood, panting in and out strenuously through his nose.  The way Ratbag’s lower jaw had been fixed – together with the unwieldly contraption that was bolted across his face – that made it difficult for the Orc to draw breath properly through his mouth.  

He squatted down in the dust and wasted the next few minutes trying to worry his fingers between his skin and the wide band of metal secured to it, just at the angle of his jaw.  The wounds underneath were slowly closing but the whole area ached, and itched viciously. 

It was no use.  The criss-crossing bands were tightly attached and in such a way that it was impossible for Ratbag to achieve so much as a moment of relief.  But the fit needed to be tight. The pieces of metal that had been bolted and wired to his head were about all that was keeping his lower mandible from coming away entirely.

Or so it felt like.

“Broken in four places,” the Orcish bone-setter told him cheerfully, afterwards. Well it would be, wouldn’t it?  Ratbag had taken the brunt of the mace-blow there, in the side of his face.  

“Try an’ ‘old still.  It’s prob’ly gonna - _nip_ \- a bit when I put this in.“

That was an understatement.  Some of the plate had had to be screwed directly into the bone of Ratbag’s chin.

The rest of it – Ratbag hadn’t been able to see what the rest of it looked like, but he’d had enough chances to have a good feel with his hands and -

It was – it was like they’d put a _muzzle_ on him.  The bands looped round from his jaw to the back of his skull.  A central one ran right up the middle of his face, incorporating a split for his pointed nose, then continued between his eyebrows, went over the top of his head and then on down to the nape of his neck.  This central connection joined to and supported a metal lattice-work that encased most of the bottom portion of his face.  A criss-crossing network of flat metal bands ran from just beneath his cheekbones all the way down to his chin and underneath, completely covering his mouth, to the angle of his jaw.  Ratbag was only able to breathe / drink / suck in soft, paste-like food through the gaps in it.  

At first they’d told him it was only to be a temporary measure.   But by Ratbag’s reckoning the bones ought to have been sorted by now.  They ought to have been sorted out for _weeks._  

So all in all – yeah.  Muzzle was about right.  What with that and the collar and the leash he also had on him – they didn’t call Ratbag ‘Ratbag the Coward’ any longer.  These days when they talked about him he was known as ‘that Turncoat Warchief’ or ‘Dark Ranger’s dog.’

Ratbag was never sure what they meant when they spat at him and called him those things.  It was his job to _fight_ the Ranger, wasn’t it?  That was all he knew.  It was more or less the only coherent thought he had left to him, the idea of this, his final mission, that Ratbag had had instilled in him so painfully  - and _protractedly_ by -  by the -

_(Black Hand)_

At that the little Uruk jumped to his feet and frantically resumed his pacing, tracing a jerking path of steps back, and back and forth, focussing as much of his attention as he could on the all-consuming repetition of movement, until eventually his thoughts began to slip sideways from overwhelming memories of horror and torment that were skewering his brain.

At last Ratbag regained a measure of his composure, clawing his way to a brittle kind of equanimity.  His thoughts went skating, quick and superficial, across a surface that had all the substance of the skim of ice on a winter puddle, although a host of dark recollections still roiled and seethed beneath. By means of torture and coercion, it had been imposed upon him upon pain of death what he must do.  He was a Warchief, and had to fight the Dark Ranger.

As a Warchief, it was his duty to do battle with the Ranger. That point had been made to Ratbag repeatedly and had been cruelly reinforced.

Of course, he hadn’t wanted to do it at first.  Talk of the dread Ranger was spreading; he had uncanny abilities and was able to bend completely to his will the strongest, most fanatic of the Dark Lord’s servants.  It was said that he was amassing an Uruk army of his own.

For Ratbag, to fight such a one as him?  The very idea – it was plainly _ludicrous_.

Ratbag had soon discovered, however, that the Black Hand retained certain uncanny abilities of his own.  Placing his freezing grasp across Ratbag’s forehead the Hand had looked into and right through him, straight into Ratbag’s brain, effortlessly turning the little Uruk’s thoughts upside down and inside-out. 

Ratbag, at first, had not wanted to face the Ranger, but during this process he had his mind changed for him.

Literally, the Black Hand had altered his mind.  And now, the only thing Ratbag knew was that over-riding thought the Hand had placed in him:  

It was Ratbag’s duty to do battle with the Ranger.

Ratbag, as he squatted leashed and muzzled in the dust, retained little idea of who, or what he had been before.  There was only the knowledge of his mission, and of his humiliating new title: ‘Turncoat’; ‘Dog;’  the names he couldn’t understand, because none of it made sense. 

On the contrary: wasn’t he supposed to be the Gravewalker’s – kind-of – _nemesis_?

***

It had all started with one of those good news / bad news scenarios.  The good news, such as there was of it, being that Ratbag had finally achieved his goal of promotion to Warchief!

Bad news: it was a position he’d not managed to hold onto for long.  As last Warchief standing, he’d been called to account by the Hammer of Sauron no less, over the destruction of the Monument to the Dark Lord the Hammer was building.  It was the Gravewalker who’d done the damage really, but Ratbag had immediately been dropped right in it by his back-stabbing fellow Uruk Captains, and a punishment duly delivered.  The Hammer had swung his fiery mace at him and with one devastating blow to the head, knocked him _flying_.

Two of the back-stabbing _bastard_ Captains picked him up during their retreat.

“Look.  S’that new runtish Warchief, innit?” one of them said, getting hold of one of Ratbag’s feet and dragging him.  “And he’s still breathing.  Come give us an ‘and now.  We’ve gotta bring him!”

The Captain’s mate snorted with disdain.  “What for d’you you want a snivelling little _maggot_ like _him_?”

The Captain dropped Ratbag and stood with his hands on his hips.  “Well!  Think about it for two seconds won’t’c’her.  This snivelling maggot’s only the last of the Uruk _Warchiefs_ isn’ee?  Now, what do Warchiefs do?....An who you think we just been fighting?”

“Uh!” the Mate grunted.  “Well, an Uruk Warchief, his primary objective, if you will, would be he’s s’posed ter hunt down, and kill that –“  here he twisted his fingers so they were holding a particular shape, and gesturing with them superstitiously, spat.  “Warchief’s job’s to kill that undead piece a’ Gravewalking bastard filth, isn’it?”

Badly injured as he was, Ratbag, unfortunately, was not completely out of it as yet and when he heard the words ‘Gravewalking bastard’ it stirred some acute feeling or reaction in him.  But the blinding pain in his head was blanking out _everything_ and he couldn’t keep hold of any sense of what it meant to him.  

“Stands to reason, dunnit,” the Captain said, shoving Ratbag’s prone body with his toe, “better _he_ does it than the likes of you or me.”  As the Mate shrugged his assent, the two Captains each took one of Ratbag’s arms, and a leg and began hauling him. 

After a few minutes they stopped and quickly stripped Ratbag’s armour away.   The many bone spines and spikes it had on it were snagging and catching in all sorts of battlefield debris as they went.

Ratbag tried to protest but he did it weakly.  He’d bitten part-way through his tongue when the mace hit him and couldn’t make his mouth move correctly.  He coughed, trying to clear his airway - but he was on his back and the fluid ran back into his mouth and choked him.  Black blood bubbled from between his teeth and dribbled out the sides of his mouth.  It flowed down his neck and chin.

“I dunno mate,” the Mate said, looking down at him.  “Looks like he’s not long for this world, this ‘un.”

“Ehh.” The Captain was unimpressed.  “I’ve seen ‘em come back from far worse than _that_.”

They were now clear of the battle.  The Captains hefted Ratbag into the back of an empty supply-cart.

“You any idea what we gon’ do next?”

The Captain nodded.  “Black ‘And.  He’ll see to him.”

And the Black Hand _had_ seen to Ratbag - eventually.  The Black Hand was the Hand of Sauron, greatest of Dark Lord’s still-mortal Captains, and he was at that time barricaded in the fortress stronghold of Ered Glamhoth, across the Sea of Núrnen on its far eastern shore.  The two Orc Captains arranged for Ratbag to be delivered to the Hand, sending him at first by road in the supply cart, and later laid out in the hold of a merchant’s vessel that plied its trade across the Núrnen's melancholy dark, waters, carrying cargo back and forth from shore to shore.

In the meantime, an Orcish field medic tended Ratbag’s head-injury and set his broken jaw, fixing it in such a way that it was impossible for Ratbag to eat properly, or to speak.

That last fact hadn’t stood in the way of Ratbag’s subsequent interrogation for the Black Hand was a mind-reader, you see.  Once the Orc was in his grasp the Hand shuffled through the thoughts he found in Ratbag’s head effortlessly: with incredulity, increasing amusement and ultimately derision.  At the end of it a temporary use for Ratbag occurred to him, and on the basis of that use alone he allowed the little Uruk a stay of execution. 

If the veracity of the information he’d prised out of Ratbag could be relied upon – if the Dark Ranger truly had for some unfathomable reason made of him an odd, unappealing sort of _pet_ – what better fate than to turn that pet and set it on its former master? There was a pleasing equilibrium, as well as cruel irony in that.

So it was a reprieve in the short-term Ratbag had handed to him, at best.  When pitched in single combat against the Gravewalker and the undead Ranger’s army, there could be no possible doubt as to the outcome. 

***

Tied by his leash, Ratbag waited in the heat and dust as the sun climbed higher, past its highest point at midday, and then on through a sweltering afternoon.  As the heat of the day waned the air grew hazy, tinged red with rising dust.  At that moment a din of marching bootsteps and the clank of swords and spears and metal armour began to sound. 

Once again Ratbag turned and looked back over his shoulder.    _At last._

Between the point where he was chained and the Hand’s fortress behind him stretched an empty expanse of rubble-strewn foreshore.  Into this area there now came marching an Orcish battle-company, numbering half, or maybe more than half the standing battalion from the fortress, by Ratbag’s reckoning.

As Ratbag watched, an Orc named Yanbeg stepped away from the tightly massed company, and began quick-stepping across the field towards him. 

Ratbag whined to see him, making the sound low down in his throat.  At that point, and as he often had been through his life, the little Uruk stood in fear of many different things.  He was afraid of pain and punishment and failure for example; afraid of the Dark Ranger, of having to fight the Dark Ranger, and of the Black Hand. 

Most immediately however, he was afraid of Lieutenant Yanbeg.

***

“Every Orc has a talent,” Ratbag’s Nan would tell him, back when he was just a little scrap of a thing, as she coddled him to her dear, slack-titted old breast.  That was in the deepest, most secret-est and best of all the hidey-holes they’d lived in, after whatever happened – had happened – to Ratbag’s Dam.  

Him and his Nan.  Nan was his Dam’s Dam and him and her had lived together, when Ratbag was very small.  All through their first winter they were safe and snug together, hiding in their nook down between the roots under a great, massive-trunked old oak tree.  And as the wind soughed in the bare branches and the whole tree heaved and creaked above them Ratbag’s Nan would tell him tales of Zog the Dwarf-Eater, Eagle-Eyed Gorfel, or Hork, Slayer of Beasts; Pâsh, who carried death on his sword-blades and of the many exploits of Skak the Bloated.  Nan had all kinds of stories but it was Skak who Ratbag always wanted to hear about because Skak was Ratbag’s favourite: ravenous Skak who could eat ten corpses and drink _fifteen_ buckets of wine and _still_ be hungry for more.  Every one of them had something, Ratbag’s Nan said.  Not one Orc was left out.

And Yanbeg, of course, proved no exception.  He also had a talent, and it was a seedy, unpleasant, _little_ sort of skill.  What he could do was to cause another Orc – another Orc such as, say, Ratbag – no end of pain and hurt and – here was the clever bit -  never a mark left on the other one to show for it.  He’d leave no trace.  That Yanbeg. He was a _proficient_ bastard.  Took _pride_ in his abilities.  All that sort of shit.

***

Ratbag scuttled from Yanbeg as he approached, moving to the farthest extent of his leash.  

It wasn’t nearly far enough.

He hunched himself into a shape that meant he was taking up the smallest amount of space that even a small Orc might occupy.  Compressing his body like this might help; could help protect his vital organs at the same time as it minimized the surface area of the target he presented –

Ratbag hid his face and closed his eyes and put his ears flat against his skull.

The other Orc didn’t even look at him.  Yanbeg bent down and unfastened the far end of Ratbag’s leading chain from the stake to which it was attached.  He jerked on it lightly, indicating that Ratbag should follow him. 

“Dog,” he told Ratbag.  “It’s time.”

 

TBC


	8. You call this a duel?

 

Talion and his Uruk battle force had disembarked.  

The Ranger had crossed the Sea of Núrnen, bringing with him a newly-acquired, elite attack-force of soldier Uruk-hai.  He had recently assembled them on the basis of the vision – advice – or prophecy – provided him by the Lady of the Shore; Marwen, the Seer-Queen whose help he’d sought in Núrn.   

Talion had hoped the Seer would know of a way to end the curse that bound him but the Queen was only able to confirm what Celebrimbor had always said: that to break his curse Talion must kill the Hand of Sauron, and stop the Orcs loyal to him.   

“Find an Orc leader,” the Queen had told him.  “Make him your Warchief, and all his soldiers will be yours.  Lead your Orc army across the sea and into battle at the Fortress of the Hand.”

‘Find an Orc leader!’  At first it had seemed an impossibility.  But then, to build this army, Talion had relied upon an extension – or refinement - of the Elf-Lord Celebrimbor’s telepathic ability.  The Wraith’s powers in this area were increasing, and with them his ability to enter, influence and control his subject’s mind.  The Orc chieftans Talion selected had all capitulated instantly, bending entirely to his – to Celebrimbor’s - will. 

“Your power begets followers, willing or otherwise,” as the Lady Marwen explained to him, and it was true; the Uruk captains he’d chosen now followed Talion unquestioningly.  And, as Celebrimbor’s power developed so did the level of its intensity: close physical contact, that hand-to-forehead so called ‘mind-reading grip’ once necessary for the Ranger was no longer always a prerequisite; depending on the mental strength and qualities of his intended target, an unbreakable ‘brand’ of control could sometimes be thrown, by Talion, from a distance: when he was merely in the general vicinity of his goal.      

So the Orcs had been subdued.  They answered only to Talion, and to Celebrimbor, now.  ‘Bright Lord,’ some of them had taken to calling him – or them: for Talion was never certain who they were addressing and whether it was himself, or the Elf-Wraith they were seeing when they hailed him with that new, unsettling salute.

The people of Núrn were the direct descendants of Corsair Raiders, and retained many of the Corsairs’ maritime traditions.  The captain of a smuggling fleet, loyal to Queen Marwen agreed to ferry Talion and his Orcs to their destination: Ered Glamhoth on far side of the Núrnen.  Having left the ships they’d travelled in behind them, Talion led his company into combat against the army of Sauron’s Hand and now they approached the place their battle would commence.

Shimmering in heat-haze, the afternoon sunlight glinted off the spears and shields and armour of the amassed Orc army on the far side of the field of combat.

As Talion watched two Orcish figures, one leading the other, began to make their way, painfully slowly, across the battlefield, through the rising heat and dust.  The pair stopped when they were about half-way across; just as soon as they were within hailing distance of Talion’s company.

Accompanied by peals of raucous laughter from the massed ranks of his contemporaries the first Orc addressed Talion.

“Gravewalker!” he cried.  “His excellency the Hand of Sauron bids me send you his most cordial greetings - and his apologies, for he cannot come to meet you here today.  But the Black Hand is generous even to his enemies.  He has left a present to console you – the Hand’s second, who you may fight in single combat instead.  Look!  Come see.  It is a very special gift!”

The first Orc was leading the second, smaller one by means of a length of chain leashed to the short one’s neck.  Dropping hold of the chain, he now pushed the leashed Orc in front of him.  

The second one stumbled forwards, listing sideways as he went.  With a series of shoves the lead Orc goaded him on, finally delivering a vicious kick to the back of his legs that caused him to falter and stumble down onto one knee. 

It was an undersized, scrawny little creature.  Black-haired, and with the strange yellow, green-tinged skin common to so many of Orcs of its type. 

And the thing was that he _looked_ like Ratbag.  Even his outfit was the same.  This Orc had no armour; none of the ornate – if fanciful – skull or skeleton and horn-decorated trappings that, as Talion now knew, were the symbols of Orcish military rank.  He was dressed just as Ratbag had been on the night he’d met him: as an Orc in disgrace.  In the garb of a prisoner who had no personal status to speak of. Down to his naked chest, the funny little buckled leather gorget and ragged, double-belted breeches he wore, this second Orc could have been Ratbag’s twin. 

Talion had to quickly suppress an acute rush of sorrow and regret as he looked at him.  His Orcish companion – his own Ratbag - had perished months ago.  Talion himself had seen him fall, killed by the Tower of Sauron soon after the Outcasts’ revolt: after Talion had led the slaves and Outcasts of Mordor in their uprising against him.  

The kneeling Orc was also wearing – or had been fitted with – a strange type of helmet or mask.  It covered his mouth and lower jaw and seemed to be secured, in places, permanently into his skull.  Talion by this stage was quite familiar with the bizarre types of headgear and outlandish facial-wear sported by many of Mordor’s Orcs, but the device that this one had on him was unlike anything he’d seen previously.  It looked _painful_.  Beneath the mess of metal straps, Talion could see the wet running sores it had carved into the little Orc’s face and even at some distance, catch scent of a distinctive, sickly reek of corruption.  The Ranger couldn’t countenance anyone wearing such an object out of choice and wondered, absently, what this Orc could have done to warrant such an extreme form of punishment. 

Talion drew his sword and held it ready as he strode forward to meet his victim.  It was a peculiar choice, this Orc the Hand had selected to be his second, and no doubt intended with some ulterior motive; some perverse form of public execution through means of trial by combat. 

At least this one, the Ranger thought, would in all likelihood count as a mercy-killing.  It should take but a moment to complete. 

The Orc kneeling in the dust a little way ahead of Talion lifted his head and looked at him.

It was Ratbag.

The Ranger’s reaction was as involuntary as it was automatic.  He had been gaining momentum and was just short of breaking into a run but stopped at once in his tracks, abruptly pulling back the ferocious, double-handed down-stroke - with which he would otherwise have cleaved Ratbag’s skull in two - with such wrenching, twisting force that he overbalanced, and then also had to waver a few steps sideways in order to right himself.  For a panicked instant he checked himself, but most of all his intended target frantically, to ensure he really _hadn’t_ struck him because the truth was that this Orc looked like Ratbag because he _was,_ indisputably  -

_Ratbag!_

And already Talion had seen Ratbag fall once before, when he was struck by the Hammer’s accursed mace.  The Ranger had been inconsolable, knowing he had arrived just a bare minute or two too late, and afterwards Talion had mourned him.  He mourned him still and didn’t under how, or why his dead Orc could possibly have come to meet him – had suddenly appeared – right on the field of battle.

It was because he was _not_ a dead Orc, obviously, for there was no doubt that here he was, in front of him.  Talion, however, was appalled as he looked at his former companion.  That cruel travesty bolted to his face - and there was next to nothing left of him. 

Ratbag had lost what little weight he’d once carried, and was now as lean as a starving wolf at the end of winter.  As the Ranger stared, thunderstruck at him, he dropped down, animal-like, crouching and ready to pounce; reduced to nothing but a stringy package of bone, sinew, and painful knotted muscles straining against unhealthy pallid skin.   His ears went back and he snarled at Talion making a vicious, ugly sound; savage as a wolf and yet with a fierce note of fear – and warning – in it.  Through the grotesque mask of straps and bars that bound the lower portion of his face Talion could see the Orc’s lips pulling back from the sharp points of his teeth.  Raging, spitting, the Orc glowered up at Talion, with burning orange eyes in his blotched and livid-coloured face. 

There was no spark of recognition whatsoever in them.

As Talion circled closer to him, cautiously, Ratbag picked himself up and stood for a moment, looking down at himself.   His brow creased visibly.  He spread his palms open and held them out at the sides of his body in an empty-handed gesture, as if realizing for the first time that he was waiting there quite unarmed.  With a glance back over his shoulder he glowered at the lead Orc who’d accompanied him.  Ratbag directed a guttural, explosive grunt at the other one, making a wordless sound in his throat that nevertheless ended in a definitely questioning note.

Fresh dismay, outrage, and pity churned in Talion’s breast.  One effect of the obscene _thing_ Ratbag had on him had been to deprive Ratbag of his speech.  When all else failed Ratbag’s ability to talk his way out of trouble was the one thing he’d always relied upon; the skill he’d so often used to save his skin, and on top of all of their cruelty, his captors had seen fit to take the Orc’s voice away from him, too.   

The lead Orc meanwhile was delivering Ratbag a weapon.  Obligingly, he stepped nearer – just close enough so he could fling Ratbag the sword he was carrying.  It landed in the dust at Ratbag’s feet.  Ratbag regarded the rough black blade for a moment, his expression blank, as if he had no idea what to make of it.  Then he picked the sword up and held it, in a ready position in both hands in front of him.  The weapon looked heavy and was obviously too large for an Orc of Ratbag’s size.  The blade he’d been given was wide, tarnished, and covered with furry splotches of rust.  Its edges were notched and dull.

But as a blunt instrument, it was quite capable of doing its job.  With speed and an economy of movement that – in the context of their sudden, unexpected appearance - were almost shocking, Ratbag turned on the spot and lunged – not towards Talion, but in the direction of his Orcish companion.  At once the other one began loping away from him; beating what was, as subsequent events would quickly confirm, a very well-advised retreat. 

“Not me, Dog!” he shrieked as he went, “you’re not supposed to be fighting _Yanbeg,_ you brain-damaged _half-wit_!  The Dark Ranger!” He gestured wildly, pointing at Talion.  “Look!  Behind you!  Fight _him_!  Him!  _He’s_ the one!”

Fast and vicious as a striking sewer rat Ratbag chased after him.  He sprinted with his back bent, crouching low to the ground and dragged his outsized sword behind him.  Drawing abreast of the fleeing Orc Ratbag dove, skidding in the dirt, head-first on his belly in front of him and rolled, entangling the free end of his neck-chain round Yanbeg’s ankles to bring him crashing down beside him.  The two Orcs struggled and skirmished on the ground for a moment, hidden in the rising cloud of his dust they were raising up around them.  Ratbag was the first to leap clear of it.  Re-entering the fray, he swung his weapon frantically at Yanbeg but swung too low. 

Now, the sword he’d been given was dull at the edges, but it had weight as well as the momentum of Ratbag’s desperate swing behind it.  It hit home with a serious-sounding impact, low-down at the back of Yanbeg’s ankle, immediately rupturing the main tendon that ran there.  The injured limb folded under Yanbeg instantly and as Ratbag jumped on top of him he fell down, yelling and yowling.  They fought on, grappling hand to hand in silence.

Talion ran towards them.  As he drew nearer he saw Ratbag head-butt Yanbeg, knocking him sprawling onto his back.  Ratbag followed after, then brought his head smashing down again, driving the heavily muzzled portion of his face full-force into the other Orc’s throat.  That first blow alone, most likely, was enough to have quickly done for Yanbeg, yet Ratbag followed it up, and followed it up, using the weight and metal surface of his muzzle to mash what was left Yanbeg’s neck – head - and then the upper surface of his body – to an oozing, bloody mess.

For some time after all life had left Yanbeg’s body Ratbag continued with his following up, striking the dead Orc again and again, repeatedly.  At last he staggered free, chest heaving and his eyes streaming moisture that looked for all the world – as it ran through the coating of gore that was slick on his face - as if was weeping grotesque tears of black Orc’s blood.  Then the little Orc retrieved his sword.   As Talion looked on, Ratbag leapt onto Yanbeg’s corpse. Screaming his hatred and despair into his muzzle he drove the blade, with all the strength he had in him, straight through the Orc’s lifeless body, running it through from front to back.   

He was ‘Ratbag the Coward.’  It was a name that suited him because with the best will in the world, Ratbag had never been much of a fighter.  But this – it was beyond anything Talion had ever seen from him.   Until it happened the Ranger wouldn’t have believed that Ratbag had such violence in him.   

Ratbag pulled his sword – and it took no small amount of effort – out of Yanbeg and turned to face Talion.

“Ratbag?” the Ranger said, trying his best to reassure the poor, feral, bedraggled, deranged-looking, thing.  Ratbag was slump-shouldered, listing to one side again and had obviously used up the last of his reserves in his fight.  The little Orc looked exhausted; on the very verge of collapse.

“ _Ratbag_ ,” Talion insisted.  “It’s all right.  I’m here.  You’re not going to have fight – “

And that was the moment Ratbag chose to attack him.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter end notes: A gamer and youtuber going by the name of Uruk’s Hollow has worked out a strategy for reintroducing and / or resurrecting Ratbag, who, in the official version of the ‘Shadow of Mordor’ video game gets presumably killed or otherwise taken out of commission by the Hammer of Sauron early on during game-play. Uruk’s Hollow’s strategy results in Ratbag himself making another – utterly fantastic - appearance towards the end of the game, where he turns up as Talion’s ‘personal nemesis’ at the beginning of the ‘Lord of Mordor’ story mission.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wv5TRD47jeE
> 
> (I have posted this link without permission and if anyone take should exception to my having done so – please let me know and I’m very sorry about that.)
> 
> Anyway. Even in the absence of a Ranger / Orc secret romance bubbling away beneath the surface, just before their big battle, game-canon Talion indisputably directs a lot of significant staring and searching, reproachful looks towards whichever Orc from the game has turned out to be his personal nemesis. This was undoubtedly intended by the people who made the game to convey something quite different to what I’ve ended up taking away from it, but when that nemesis turns out to be Ratbag and he clearly doesn’t even recognize Talion….! 
> 
> Well, this is one of the things that can happen when people release a video-game containing official footage of its hero straight-up staring forlornly across a battlefield at an Orc like that.


	9. This is losing a duel.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely SaunterVaguely has drawn an utterly charming interpretation of what Talion and Ratbag's tender reunion might look like:
> 
> http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/163310837665
> 
> With a clickable link at the end of the chapter.

 

There was a tale Talion had once heard, of a King and of his half-son, who had to meet each other in battle.  But the King was a wise King and so in the morning, when the knights and the pike-men on his side, and his son’s side were assembling, he wrote a treaty and made an accord for peace.

The treaty was brokered and ready for signing when a little black snake came creeping out of the heather.  She was an adder, and there was a stone she liked to bask on that would already be warm from the sun.  But the adder did not know her stone was on a battlefield.  She was near-sighted and did not see the boot of a marching knight descending until it was almost on her.  Just before she was crushed the little snake reared up and stung the knight in his foot.  Then the knight drew his sword and struck the adder dead.

On seeing the knight’s blade flashing in the sunlight, a great clamour rose up from the opposing army.  Horns and trumpets sounded and, by mistake, the battle was begun.

***

There was no chance they would have settled it one-on-one; Ranger versus Orc.  But, as with the knight and his snake, the moment Ratbag raised his sword and launched himself at Talion was interpreted by the Orcs of Ered Glamhoth, and by Talion’s Uruk followers as a sign that they should start fighting.  Howling out hideous war-cries, Uruk soldiers from both sides of the battlefield surged forwards, running at each other, and all set to converge at about the point where Talion and his Orc were squaring up to fight.  

Talion stared at Ratbag in shock, feeling almost too surprised – and baffled – to ward off his opening strike.  His reaction was so slow that he was able to block the Orc’s first swipe with his sword only within a hairsbreadth of it making contact.  There was far more power behind it than he had been expecting and their blades met and grated together with a long, ear-splitting, metallic scrape.  Ratbag’s blunt sword locked together with Talion’s at the hilt and at once the Orc moved in very close to grapple with him, snarling into Talion’s face, foaming at the mouth and spitting rage at him.  

As he often did during battle, Celebrimbor materialized into semi-corporeal form then, appearing somewhat ahead of Talion and a little way off to his left. 

“Mind’s gone,” he put in helpfully.  At these times the Elf-lord’s shade could do far more than offer Talion his counsel and he let loose a quick flight of blue-glowing, insubstantial arrows made from his own Wraith-magic.  Celebimbor watched them for a moment, satisfied to see each arrow meeting its mark. 

“Your Orc’s mind, I mean,” he added, throwing the comment to Talion over his shoulder.  “Kindest thing would be to knock him on the head directly.  But I don’t suppose you’re prepared to do that, are you?”

Talion threw the weight of his body forwards to break the impasse between himself and Ratbag and shoved the little Orc backwards, off his blade.  “What’s _happened_ to him?”

Celebrimbor drew his own sword and used it to cut through one of the first-line of approaching Mordor Uruks, one that had run ahead of the others.  This had not ended well for him.    

“Isn’t it obvious?” Celebrimbor replied.  “Your Orc’s a weakling.  There’s always been something…lacking about that one.  I’ve never pretended otherwise, and that means something _else_ must be animating him.  Giving him assistance, in the way I’ve become accustomed to assisting you.”

And this was certainly something that Celebrimbor sometimes did; through the link they shared between them he could, when he wished, transfer to Talion some of his seemingly-inexhaustible source of Wraith-energy, allowing the Ranger enhanced speed, strength and agility, as well as an Elf-like ability to climb.    

“Even if you can’t see it,” Celebrimbor added, “I can tell that _someone’s_ been rummaging around -” here he jumped back momentarily from the next Orc he was fighting and tapped his index finger against his forehead, directing, as he did it, a significant look at Ratbag – “in _there_ already.” He somersaulted back into the fray again, calling to Talion: “of course I mean someone other than you.”

“Then who?” the Ranger shouted back at him – and then “ _HOLD!_ ” as he turned, and at the last possible moment managed to deflect a vicious, brutal axe-slash, aimed at Ratbag by one of the Orcs from Talion’s side.  This Orc had been chosen by Talion for his particular skill with that weapon and his blow, had it hit home, would no doubt have split Ratbag’s belly open where he stood.

Talion put himself, bodily, between Ratbag and his own Orcish supporter - who in spite of Talion’s instruction remained bent on killing him. 

Now they were coming at him from both sides! 

“Aardek!” Talion cried, addressing the one Orc of the pair he was fighting who remained loyal to him.  “ _Not_ this one - _hold_!  I’m giving you an order.   Fall back!  Stop!   _Back_ , I say!” 

But Aardek’s blood was up and he wouldn’t stop his attempts to eviscerate Ratbag on the spot. 

“Who’s done this?” Celebrimbor called, breezily, in reply to Talion’s earlier question.  “The Hand of Sauron, for my money.”

At last, in desperation, Talion resorted to throwing one of his short-distance ‘brands’ of mental control Aardek’s way.  As the brand caught and took hold, Aardek, looking – very incongruously  - as if he was suddenly remembering something pressing he’d forgotten to do, exclaimed –

“Oh!  So _not_ this one.  OK Boss!  I getcha!” in his slow, baritone voice.  Then Aardek turned and lumbered away to find someone else to fight.     

Though he’d continued intermittently firing arrows, as well as fighting, Celebrimbor had also been taking note of Talion and Aardek’s interaction. 

“Now, you know you don’t want to have to do that more than once or twice in total,” he advised.  “Not if you expect them to be of much use afterwards, that is.  Just _look_ what’s happened in the process of the Hand turning your tame Orc against you!  You know how much of a mistake it was for you to have taken up with a feeble specimen like him.” 

 “I think this is hardly the time,” Talion yelled back at him, “for you to start telling me ‘ _I told you so_!’”

Celebrimbor dodged and whirled through the ranks of advancing enemy Orcs, hacking with his sword – left! and right! - as he went.  “I doubt it was even very difficult for the Hand to accomplish,” he shouted.    

“Are you honestly trying to claim that your only issue with my having ‘taken up’ with an Orc - as you call it - is that you think I should have chosen one who was more…. _robust_ , mentally?”

With Aardek gone Talion was able to focus his attention on subduing Ratbag.  They circled one another,  the Ranger moving warily, only to side-step and dodge the hacking slashes and blows the Orc aimed at him.  As Ratbag and Talion fought on, the little Uruk, in spite of the presence of any ‘invigorating forces’ Celebrimbor might have wanted to claim on his behalf was slowing in his movements markedly.  Sword-swipe - step, and block, and parry.  He was going through the motions of sword-fighting mechanically, at best.  Mounting his last, desperate attack on Talion had cost Ratbag everything he’d had left in him.  

 “That Orc’s _not_ mentally robust!  _Look_ at him!” 

Hoping to finish the thing, Talion rushed at Ratbag and crossed swords with him.  He forced the Orc’s blade downwards, aiming to twist it out of his grip.  And then at close quarters he spoke, urgently, to him.  “ _Yield_ ,” he told him.  “Ratbag, yield.  _Please -_ yield _._ ” 

Ratbag’s response to this was – exactly nothing.

“Ratbag, you ‘re– _my_ Orc, remember?  And I’m –“ Talion’s voice tailed off.  It wasn’t working!  Still, he tried again.   “The two of us – you told me yourself, we’re the same.  That means we don’t have to – there’s no need for us to do this.  Stop fighting me - _please_.  Give _in_.”

Ratbag gripped his sword more tightly.  He shook his head and twitched his ears, irritably.  He gave no other sign that he might have heard him.

The spot Celebrimbor was standing was now ringed about by no small number of dead and dying Orcs.  The din of the battle ongoing was all around, with Mordor Uruks clashing against those recruited by Talion and all of them roaring at each other, hurling insults and bellowing, on top of the crash and clang their weapons were making.  

The noise was deafening _._  It was not the best of environments for carrying out a complex  conversation in.

The Elf-lord dematerialized, then shimmered back into being again much nearer, close by Talion’s side.  He regarded  Ratbag with a sceptical eye.  “Obviously not hearing a word you say to him.  Talion, I think we both know what you’re going to have to do.” 

“What’s that.”  The Ranger’s voice was grim.  “What do you think I’m going to have to do.”

Ratbag feinted right suddenly and took a staggering steep in the opposite direction, trying to break away from Talion.  He did manage to drag his sword free and stepped back, making to regroup, but wasn’t fast enough.  Talion smartly closed the distance between them and charged at him, barging his shoulder heavily into Ratbag’s chest.  He knocked the Orc over and quickly disarmed him, then used his weight to keep him pinned flat on his back on the ground. 

“Find out what the Orc knows, of course!” Celebrimbor urged.  “Have a look in.  Just a quick peek.”

He hadn’t yet decided that he was going to do it, really, and – perhaps it was more out of force of habit than anything.  After all Talion had done this to a great many Orcs in the interim.  He reached his hand out towards Ratbag’s temple - but at that the Orc’s eyes went wide as saucers and he shook his head frantically, struggling with all his might to loosen the hold Talion had on him.   Fear and naked horror were clear to see on his face – abject fear; of _Talion_ \- and that was more than sufficient to make the Ranger immediately abandon any plan he might’ve had of using his mind-reading power on him.  He rested back on his haunches, still on top of the little Orc.

Celebrimbor darted out in front of Talion and Ratbag and used his sword to run through an Orc who was advancing on them.  Just as the Orc he’d killed began toppling backwards, he jumped up onto its chest and used that as leverage to allow him to vault high into the air.  Celebrimbor quickly despatched a second Uruk, and then a third for good measure, as he came down and landed gracefully on the ground.

“If you’ve quite finished partaking in your latest _lovers’ tryst_!” the Elf bellowed to Talion, having completed his descent, “I feel I’ve already been _more_ than accommodating to you during endless nights of – of _this_ kind of activity!  And the fact is I’m hardly able to ‘obligingly’ make myself scarce at this point, as you’ve so often requested of me, am I?  We are in a _battle_ , in case it had escaped your attention.  Talion!  Get up off that Orc, find out what he knows and _finish_ the thing!”

Talion stood up from Ratbag, regarding him with a sad, sorrow-filled look. 

“Orc,” he told him, “I’m advising you to stay down.”  Then he said to the Elf-Wraith – “’no more than once or twice,’ isn’t that what you told me?  By the looks of Ratbag I should think he’s had more than enough of – that  - already.”

Celebrimbor rounded on him.  “It’s not as if it’s going to make any difference in _this_ case, is it?  Everybody’s already done their worst – yourself included!  And he may yet be able to give us the location of the Hand!”

“Then I’ll ask him.  Orc, look at me!  Do you know where the Hand of Sauron is?  Is he still in his Fortress?”

Ratbag stared at him, his eyes still saucer-wide.  He shook his head.

“He says the Hand’s not in the fortress.   He doesn’t know where he is.”

Pausing only to fire off another rapid volley of his Wraith-arrows, which felled the nearest Mordor Uruks in their vicinity, Celebrimbor threw his ghostly arms up in exasperation.  “Yes!  I can _see_ that!  And you’re willing to take his word for it, are you?”

Talion shrugged.  “Are you telling the truth to me, Orc?  Don’t lie.”

Looking frightened, Ratbag nodded, slightly.

“There.  You see?”

“ _Fine_!  If you say so!  Of course he must be not lying when he says he’s not lying.  What next?”

“We’ll go on and storm the fortress as planned, I expect,” Talion sighed.  He knelt down beside Ratbag again.  The little Orc shrank from him, struggled backwards in a fruitless attempt to get away - and  fainted.  Frowning, Talion rolled him onto his side.  Blood – and it was a great quantity of blood - was pooling on the ground where Ratbag had been lying and there was a short, bone-handled dagger sticking out of the back of his leg.  Yanbeg, it seemed, had landed a blow of his own on Ratbag when they were fighting.  He’d driven his blade right through the meat of Ratbag’s thigh and afterwards left the knife in him.  Ratbag, during his earlier exertions had twisted the wound open.  It was bleeding copiously.

“’Weakling,’ you say,” Talion said.  Moving the Orc with care he scooped Ragbag up off the ground, one arm supporting him at the shoulders and back of his neck, and the other slung under his knees.  He eyed the Elf-prince with a long, measured look.  “He’s ill.  And he’s injured.  I doubt I’d have been able to carry on as long in his place, would you?”  

Celebrimbor rolled his eye and tutted.  “I most certainly could _not_ have carried on for so long.  And that is because your Orc is currently being animated,” he told him, “by other, outside forces, as I’ve already explained to you.”

“What about storming the fortress?” he called, as the Ranger turned his back and strode away from him.  “Talion?  Where do you think you are going?”

Talion nodded towards a burly, axe-wielding Orc who was fighting an ever-decreasing number of Mordor Uruks off in the distance.  “Aardek.  I’m going to deliver Ratbag to Aardek for safe keeping.”

“ _Safe-keeping_?”

“One way or another there’s a good chance that after we’ve ‘stormed the fortress’ - we’ll not be coming back.  In that case I intend to make provision for him.”

The Elf-Wraith hurried after Talion, complaining in a loud voice as he went.  “You want to make provision!  For an _Orc_?  Oh - for pity’s sake!  But he can look after himself.  Talion?  Put that Orc down this instant.  Will you _please_ stop carrying him all……bundled up in your arms like that - he’s not a damsel in distress.  Talion!  Come back here!”

“I’ll be at your disposal once more, and as I always have been, soon enough.  I’ll be happy to continue our quest - after I’ve seen to this”.  

“Then have the decency to sling him over your shoulder, like a proper Man, at least!  There’s no need for you to be cradling him so lovingly to your breast – it’s downright unseemly!  Look here, Talion!  At least you could _try_ to do the decent thing!”   

The Ranger kept walking.  The heat of the battle, fast and violent as it had been at its outset, was subsiding and it was easy for him to pick his way around the few, isolated skirmishes that were still underway.  Overall it looked to have been a decisive victory for Talion’s side.  Some of Talion’s Orcs had even started taking prisoners.  That was all right.  He would be able to brand the others in due course.

When he was near enough Talion called to his Orcish bondsman.   “Aardek!” he commanded.  “Finish fighting, stow your axe and your weapons and listen to me!”  When Aaardek obeyed, he passed him the unconscious Orc he’d been carrying.  “This is Ratbag.  Now be careful - pay attention.  I’ve an important new job for you.”

 

TBC

 

 

Lovely SaunterVaguely has drawn an utterly charming interpretation of what Ratbag and Talion's tender reunion might look like which you can see [here](http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/163310837665)


	10. ....that didn't hurt.....at all....

 

Ratbag rarely slept.  For that reason he almost never dreamed, and so it was difficult for him to make sense of the hazy impressions that were plaguing him, of events surrounding the end of the battle.  

He fought the Dark Ranger and lost.  He knew that much.  Also that he’d fought Yanbeg – that _bastard_ ,  good riddance - and killed him, but not before the other Orc managed to stab him.  He’d been aware of the knife, and the wound in his leg.  At the time he had barely felt it but then, as he lay on his back, pinned down by the punishing weight of the Ranger, the heat began to drain out of him.  All of the warmth of Ratbag’s body went with the blood as it seeped from his injury, and his last memory before blank, merciful nothingness took him was shuddering with a dreadful feeling all the way through him of biting, bitter cold.

When he revived – a little – it was to the strangest sensation; of warm arms around him, holding Ratbag to some unknown person’s broad and equally-warm chest.  He pressed himself against it, gratefully.  The warmth from the other person was such that it was like it was  - sort of – _flowing,_ straight into him.  And Ratbag had been so terribly cold, before.  It was wonderful to be able to feel warm again, like this. 

It also felt as if someone was…carrying him off the battlefield.   Now….that didn’t seem right.

Whoever it was, was also speaking to him in a soft, low, voice – speaking words of comfort, and reassurance.  Ratbag’s heart clenched with bitter disappointment then, because he knew that had to mean he was imagining it.  Ratbag didn’t – he couldn’t think of a single credible situation in which anyone might consider wanting to reassure, much less give comfort to him.

There were no stories about an Orcish afterlife.  The best an Orc could hope for was that when death finally came for him, that would be the end of it.   And in similar vein Orcs had no stories of _heralds_ of death, exactly, but neither was talk of such creatures said to be untrue.  Not specifically.

Ratbag wondered in a vague, abstracted way if it could be one of – those – that was carrying him.  Who else, really, would bother to come to a battlefield and fetch him?  If there was every chance he was imagining it, then who it was could hardly matter.  Ratbag pressed himself closer to the possible-Herald-of-Death, and dozed. 

All too soon the person Ratbag thought was carrying him came to a stop.  He pressed his lips to Ratbag’s forehead, doing it straight through the iron bars of his muzzle and not bothering about the sticky mess of Yanbeg’s blood that was all over Ratbag or _anything_.  As he held his mouth there, for a long moment Ratbag could feel the warmth of his breath and a slight scratch of stubble from his chin. 

So this person was a Man, then.    

But - oh!  The smell of him!  The smell of the Man put Ratbag in mind of hot sun on canvas – warm blankets - roast _dinners_ ; all sorts of pleasant things that Ratbag knew about in principle but were none of his business; the kind of things that should have held little meaning for a person like him.  This Man was just like those things.  He felt warm and smelled safe and _so_ familiar, and Ratbag didn’t want the Man to – ever – have to stop carrying him.

But the Man did eventually stop carrying Ratbag.  ‘All good things,’ as those sanctimonious half-wits were in the habit of saying, wanting to make a point about how such things inevitably ended; but on the contrary, Ratbag’s reaction to the carrying was such that he was very grateful to have been able to experience even a few, brief moments of it.   So, after he kissed him on the head, the Man transferred the Orc – going very carefully – into the arms of…..someone else; someone whose embrace wasn’t warm, who didn’t smell even a little bit nice, and whoever that second person was, what he did was to bring Ratbag – here.

And this!  This had to be the most peculiar imprisonment, of many, in Ratbag’s experience.

It was peculiar because they were _not_ playing by any of the usual rules with this.

He was in a wooden cell, only it was bigger than a cell.  It had a narrow cot and a night-stand, and was furnished with a wooden chair and a table too.  

Yes, it was a ‘furnished’ cell - in the sense that it really did have _furniture_ in it.

There was a soft cushion on the chair and on the floor a rectangle of exotic-looking carpet.  All in all this place, rather than being a cell, had a decided….guest-bedroom-y feel about it. 

The Orc was on a ship, of course.  He knew that because set high in one wall was a row of portholes, glazed with bulls-eyes made of durable glass.  They let in light and air and on the air Ratbag could smell seaweed, seawater, and salt.

***

“ _Orc.  Look at me._ ”

Ratbag knew he’d blacked out again at some point because he didn’t remember much about the second person carrying him.  The next thing he knew was coming to again, in this room, on the cot, with those four words ringing in his ears; four words repeating one of the things the Dark Ranger had said to Ratbag during Ratbag’s questioning.  The little Orc leapt out of the bed in full panic – nevermind it hurt his injured leg - but there was no-one there.  No-one else who could’ve spoken to him.

As he jumped up Ratbag realized his meat was sticking up hard – absurdly, inappropriately hard in his breeches.

His meat was hard, sticking straight up, and throbbing.

The Orc looked down at himself in astonishment.  That hadn’t – Ratbag honestly couldn’t remember the last instance of such a thing having happened.   Not since the Black Hand and the Fortress; and certainly not since Yanbeg, the cruel lieutenant.

Because Yanbeg would’ve – Ratbag quaked with fear to think what Yanbeg would’ve wanted to do to him if he’d encountered Ratbag in a state even _approximating_ the one he was currently in.  Yanbeg’s speciality was torture, of a person, in his most sensitive and intimate places, and the twisted bastard would’ve had a fucking _field day_ if he’d ever found Ratbag like this.  

The next thing the Orc noticed, and it was enough to drive all thoughts of Yanbeg – his fear of the Ranger – the mystery of his erection; _everything_ – straight out of his head was that there was a wide basin of water on the stand by the bed. 

Ratbag couldn’t think of a time, at least since the Fortress, when he hadn’t been thirsty.  He went straight over to the basin, dunked his whole face under and desperately began trying to suck water into his mouth.  The muzzle, and the wires between his teeth made it difficult for Ratbag to drink, but this time the water flooded in so fast that it choked him.

It wasn’t until the moment he was coughing up water and hacking that Ratbag realized that his muzzle, and the wires that had bound his jaws together were gone.  The iron collar – that was no longer fixed around his neck either. 

Ratbag sat down on the bed, with his thoughts spinning round in surprise and confusion.  He put his fingers up to his face and touched his lower jaw gingerly.  Even the metal retaining-plates that had been put in to bridge and stabilize the fractured areas had been removed.  Of course there were still open sores, some of which were scabbing, and his muscles were weak and pervaded with a deep, penetrating ache, but it was the type of soreness that Ratbag associated with an injury that was healing, rather than one that had just been fresh-made.  He opened his mouth and closed it.  It was difficult for him to do - but not unmanageable.  Ratbag knew he would have to work at rebuilding the strength in the muscles that had wasted though long immobilization.  As for the bones in his jaw however – it appeared to be holding together, all in one piece.

Now, this was another very obvious reason his imprisonment was weird because in any other place, in _any other place_ they’d have _for definite_ left Ratbag’s horrible face-mask – and the neck-chain and collar at least – exactly where they were.  That was the whole _point_ of keeping a prisoner, see?  Any place else, they’d have left everything attached just as it was.  But not in this place.  In this place someone had gone to an awful lot of trouble – painstaking effort and trouble – to break Ratbag free.   This was non-standard behaviour for a gaoler to display towards his prisoner.  It counted as being ‘highly unusual’, to say the least.

Take Yanbeg for instance; Ratbag couldn’t remember if he’d already said, but Yanbeg – that _cunt_ – that cunt Yanbeg was _inventive_.  There’d been no end of things he could think up to do when he’d had Ratbag at his mercy, and many of those things had involved the three items Ratbag had attached to his head.

It wasn’t that Ratbag wasn’t glad to be free of them – because he _was_ , but from his captors’ point of view, surely this counted as a wasted opportunity? 

No.  None of it made sense.

Here was yet another thing that made no sense: the Uruk Aardek.

Aardek the Bone-headed had earned much of the status of being a legend in his own lifetime.  Even when Ratbag was a prisoner incarcerated in Ered Glamhoth, clear all the way across the sea _and_ on the other side of Mordor, he had heard no end of awestruck talk of him.  Aardek was said to be the veteran of more than a hundred battles.  He had never once fallen in combat and could wield his chosen weapon, a double-bladed battle-axe, with deadly skill and accuracy.  And as for his name - !  Aardek was renowned for his habit of charging into battle without wearing a helmet, for his skull was said to be _five times_ as thick as the skull of an average Uruk-hai.  As a result his bald - and enviably robust - head was impressively marked, all over, with numerous, criss-crossing scars left by all the swords and axes and battle-maces people had used in the past in their futile attempts to cleave it in two or to bludgeon it.  Some pieces of the axe-heads and so on were clearly still embedded in fact; and it was quite possible that they were even doing their bit by helping to contribute to the strength of the overall structure.  Aardek was – or once had been – a life-long and dedicated servant of the Dark Lord, and a fabled warrior of Mordor.   

But these days -!

The Dark Ranger had got him, he’d turned him, and one way or another this brute force of Orcish nature had been rendered as docile as a lamb.  When he spoke about the Gravewalker – and Aardek insisted on naming him ‘The Bright Lord’ - or, ‘Bright Master’ - it was invariably in glowing terms of absolute, starry-eyed reverence.  

Ratbag had heard of this type of thing of course, when people who were held hostage, or prisoner, began to have positive feelings - emotions, or _something_ \- towards their captors.  They’d come to believe that they were all of them on the same side.  It was a puzzling, messy kind of business and as Ratbag understood it, even had its own name.

In Aardek’s case however, his regard for his oppressor was so high it went above and beyond anything like that.  All in all bone-headed Aardek seemed pretty bloody _optimistic_ about his enslavement.

“The Bright Lord said I was to take care of you,” Aardek explained, the first time that he and Ratbag met. The only sense of Ratbag being a prisoner at this stage was that he was not at liberty to leave his cell / ship’s cabin. 

“It’s ‘cause of you’re not _well_ enough yet are you, Squirt?” Aardek toll him, “but you’ve not to worry about that!  You’ve got old Aardek here to sort everything out for you!”

Yes, the ever-present Aardek was indeed there to ‘sort things out’ for Ratbag.  He brought the smaller Orc food…..and if you wanted to be technical about it, the food was really ‘square meals,’ delivered by Aardek, to Ratbag, three times a day – and fresh water; changes of Ratbag’s bed-linen -

( _Bed linen_!   What use had Ratbag for anything like that?  Since the first time he’d woken, in the bed, the little Orc had been so afraid of bleeding on, or sweating through the covers when night came, with its terrors and he was filled with unreasoning fear and panic, that he’d taken to resting on the floor instead)

\- Aardek changed the pristine bedsheets regardless, and delivered changes for Ratbag’s bandages, too.

The big Uruk even – and Ratbag flushed with embarrassment on both his and Aardek’s behalf when he thought about it – he even emptied Ratbag’s _chamber pot_.

And perhaps the bizarrest thing of all was that Aardek did everything with a smile on his face because he was _proud_ to be doing these menial tasks; he seemed truly happy, just to be involved.  It was like he was aiming for getting awarded a _gold star_ fo _r effort_ from the Dark Ranger –

It didn’t make sense.

Although – Aardek was always happy enough to talk about his odd attitude to Ratbag:

“The Master” he’d explain, “well, he gave me the job special, didn’t he?  Said I was to be sure an’ sort out that metal mask-thing you had on you.  I had to see about getting it tooken off your head.   So I did!”  He beamed at Ratbag and, to illustrate this, stopped only just short of playing ‘peek-a-boo’ with Ratbag with his hands.  “No mask!  See?”

Ratbag swallowed apprehensively.  “Yeah.  Great, cheers for that,” he said.  “And you had it took off ‘cause of – _what_ , exactly….?  You reckon your Gravewalker’s planning on being able to _interrogate_ me?”

Snorting with amusement, Aardek exclaimed: “Oh, no!   The Master’d never do somethink like that!  There’s no need.”   And then he added, almost as an afterthought -

“Seeing how the Master can read folkses’ minds.   Your mask had to go ‘cause he said I was to be sure to feed you up, and that.”

“The Dark Ranger told you to _’fatten me up’_?” Ratbag squeaked, stricken.  “What _for_?  What’s that undead fella _want_ with me?”  There seemed only one logical conclusion that he could come to: “he’s not one of them  - I mean he doesn’t... _eat people_ , does he?”

“Ho!  No, Squirt! It was more along the lines of ‘make sure he wants for nuffink.’ That’s what he’s told me.”

If that was intended to be a joke, or if some double meaning was hidden in there, Ratbag did _not_ understand it.  “But what does that _mean_?” he pleaded desperately.

“Wait till the Bright Master comes.” Aardek’s smile by this stage was almost beatific.  “I know he must come soon.  Then you’ll see!” 

And that – that was _precisely_ what filled Ratbag with such unreasoning fear and dread.  Because he remembered – he remembered very vividly – his dreadful experiences with the Black Hand; despite his best efforts could not make himself forget.  So why didn’t Aardek, reacting in kind, realize the Gravewalker had – had fucking - _mind-raped_ him?  Why did the big Uruk always have to be so  - _bloody cheerful_ – about everything?

Even in these more than usually convivial surroundings, Ratbag knew he was just as much of a prisoner as he ever had been.  He could only wait and see.  But what did the Gravewalker _want_ with him?  It nagged at him; at night it terrified him.   

 _None_ of it made sense.

 

TBS


	11. Orcs make bad passengers

 

Naturally, it didn’t happen until they had travelled many leagues out of sight of land.  The trouble-making didn’t start until the first lightning strikes from the squally storm, _of course_.

***

After the battle, Talion and Celebrimbor’s quest had taken them in – and out – of Ered Glamhoth.  In searching the fortress for their enemy they had encountered, and defeated, another of the Dark Lord’s Captains - the Tower of Sauron, rather than Sauron’s Hand.

Again the Hand of Sauron evaded them.  But the Tower, before he met his end on Talion’s sword, succeeded in delivering him a devastating piece of information: that Talion’s possession by the Wraith-form of Celebrimbor had been no accident or mistake.  Celebrimbor had selected the Ranger to be his vessel and occupied his body, forging a link between them at his own behest.  On that terrible night at the Gate the Elf-Lord had deliberately chosen to bar Talion from death.  He had done it with cold calculation, wilfully.

Since that point interactions between Elf and Ranger had more or less ceased.  Their already-strained relationship was in danger of breaking down.   

With a sense of fatalistic, grim weariness that by now was familiar to him, Talion set about reassembling his Orcish army and marshalling his Uruk troops.  Back they went to the boats of the Corsair smuggling-fleet. 

They’d left the Sea of Núrn’s eastern shore before dusk, sailing westwards on a calm sea with clear skies and a good tail-wind behind them.  Hours into the voyage they passed under the trailing edge of a dark, low-lying cloud bank that had quickly obscured the stars.  The wind changed direction; started blowing in ever-increasing gusts.  Within moments, they were sailing into a thunderstorm and as thunder rolled, and cracks of lightning began intermittently flaring in the sky, the Uruk army, lodged up on the ship’s main deck, began to grow restless.   

Matters quickly escalated.  Soon the Orcs were outright attacking; not disobeying Talion’s orders as such, but through the tumult and confusion of the storm they were reacting just as Aardek had done on the battlefield: with rage as they could sense that an Orc who counted as their master’s enemy was on board.   Of course it was Ratbag, left sleeping in one of the cabins below when Talion had last seen him, and through their haze of bloodlust all his branded Uruks were bent on getting at him.  They were soon raging and sparring fitfully with each other in a close-packed mass, blocking with the press of their own bodies the access hatches to the cabins below.  Some were resorting to taking their ire and frustration out on the wooden side-rails and even the rain-slick planks of the ship’s deck.  Talion pushed his way among them, moving from Orc to Orc and branding them at short and long distance whenever he could, but with the pitching motion of the ship, and the great waves that periodically breached the deck, and the surging storm around them -

Celebrimbor appeared, balanced amongst the rigging up near the top of the ship’s main-mast.  Shimmering with his own ghostly phosphorescence and back-lit by blazing bolts of lightning, he ran lightly up the sail’s top batten, surveying the situation below.  From his vantage point high among the storm-clouds the Elf-Lord’s voice came shouting down to Talion:

“Ranger!  Get on with it!  This is taking _too long_!”

The Corsair ship’s Captain was in agreement.  He came shoving through the melee of Orcs that thronged the deck towards the place where Talion was still relentlessly re-branding his Uruks, one by one.

“I don’t want to have to do this,” he said, having to shout to make himself heard over the noise of the wind and waves and sea-spray and chaos of clamouring Orcs, “but I can’t allow you to see to every one of these blighters personally!  My ship’s in danger and we’ll be at the bottom of the sea if I don’t put a stop to this!  You need to stand aside and hand that scrawny little bugger you’ve got cloistered in my best cabin to me.  If it’s that one they’re after, I intend to let them have at it!”

Talion stepped back from the Captain and put his hand on his sword.

Celebrimbor materialized beside him.  “Talion,” he said, “you are _not_ about to single-handedly conduct a ship-wide mutiny!  For pity’s sake - there’s only _one_ Orc here you need to be branding!  Tell the Captain you have another way!”

The Ranger’s shoulders sagged.  Celebrimbor was right.  “It won’t come to that,” he told the Captain.  “I’m able to remedy this and I can do it quickly.  With your permission I’ll go below deck and see to the – little blighter, instead.”

The smuggler Captain looked far from being convinced, but after a moment grudgingly nodded his assent.  Talion collared the latest two Orcs he’d branded and dragged them after him, enlisting their help to clear – by means of brute force and violence – a temporary passage down to the ship’s cabins.  They stopped outside Ratbag’s door.   When the fighting started Talion had sent Aardek to watch his cabin and he was still waiting there, as had been Talion’s instruction.

“You two,” the Ranger told his pair of most recently re-branded minions, “– you’ll stand guard here till I’m finished.  Aardek, you’re with me.  When we get inside, get hold of Ratbag quickly and _keep_ hold till I’m done with him.  Understood?  Now – let him know you’re coming in.”  

**

Ratbag had woken, disoriented, lying on the cold planks of the deck to the pitching motion of the ship and the sound of muffled Uruk howling.   It was with a queasy feeling that he realized this meant two things: that the ship he was on had put to sea, and that there were a number of other Orcs aboard.  His first journey across the Sea of Núrnen had been a broadly similar experience in outline if not specifics; on that occasion he’d been slung half-in, half out of a sump of bilge-water in the hold of a slaver’s ship; dazed, in pain and with a muzzle bolted to his head.  The background din of Orcs and sickening, pitching ship’s motion however.  _Those_ were much the same.

He was alarmed by the changes that had occurred while he’d lain insensible for Ratbag, as an Orc, was unaccustomed to losing such lengthy blocks of time to sleep.  It had been daylight when he put his head down to rest a minute, but now it was dark outside and he had no idea how long he had been asleep.

Here was someone who might know.  Aardek was outside, rapping at his door. 

“You all right in there Squirt?” the big Orc called, and unfastening the lock he let himself in.   “S’only me.”

Now what Aardek said – that obviously _wasn’t true_ , for there was a Man waiting in the passageway outside Ratbag’s cabin.  Ratbag blanched as he recognized the half-remembered shape of him, and in that instant knew his time was through. 

The time had come for Ratbag’s final, dreadful reckoning.  Aardek had brought the Dark Ranger with him. 

“Who – who’s that you’ve brought wiv’ you?” Ratbag heard himself say, as he felt his throat closing up with panic.

“It’s no-one Squirt,” Aardek told him, soothingly, that bone-headed, lying – _utter bastard_ – as he advanced on him.  Ratbag dodged the larger, slower Uruk –  he went left, round the side of the table – right, darting under it -

“Now Squirt!” the larger Uruk admonished, catching hold of Ratbag and picking him up off his feet.  He held him tightly and shook him till his bones rattled, squeezing Ratbag to the point of pain.  “Enough of that, Squirt.  You mustn’t struggle!  The Master’s said you’ve to _stay still_.”

Ratbag didn’t stay still.  Squirming with all his might, he heaved sideways, ducked, and slipped out of Aardek the Bone-head’s grip.  But he was only prolonging the inevitable; Aardek and the dread Dark Ranger advanced on him together and cornered him effortlessly against the wall of his cell.  Ratbag dropped down and cowered from them on the floor. 

At a nod from the Dark Ranger, Aardek extracted Ratbag from the hunchbacked crouch he was holding.  He pulled him to his feet and stood him upright.

“I’m sorry,” the Dark Ranger said.  He looked Ratbag straight in the eye. 

Ratbag could remember very little of their previous encounter but now, even through his panic the Orc registered – with a faint start of surprise  - that far from being the gruesome, undead monster he’d been expecting, this Gravewalking Ranger was no more than an ordinary Man.  He was dark-haired, and tired-looking, and when he spoke to Ratbag his voice was heavy with regret.  “You won’t understand but I have to do this,” the Gravewalker told him, “but if you’ll hold still, I’ll do my best to have it over with as quickly as I can.”

It was the strangest thing, but Ratbag was finding there was something awfully familiar about the Dark Ranger’s voice.

He reached his left hand out to Ratbag’s temple.  The little Orc tried to steel himself, preparing for the terrible, freezing cold, mind-invading grip.  

“Orc,” the Dark Ranger said, “look at me.”

Now _that_ , Ratbag remembered.  He remembered the Dark Ranger saying just the same thing after he’d beaten Ratbag in the battle.  During Ratbag’s interrogation.

Only….now Ratbag came to think back on it, that hadn’t been much of a proper interrogation, had it?  At least, not the usual, ‘with-whips-and-knives’ variety.  It had been a lot more like the Ranger asking him one or two simple questions, as all the while he looked down at Ratbag with the weirdest expression….like he was _sad_ about something, maybe.

_(“ –  Ratbag?  And you could call me ‘Talion’ if you wanted.  If you liked – “)_

And….somehow, Ratbag also remembered the Ranger….Talion, his name was…telling Ratbag to look at him before.  That time Ratbag had also been on his back, and Talion had been staring at him, completely transfixed, with his hand on Ratbag’s stick, when they were by a camp fire.  And the funny thing was there had been no pain or coercion, not a bit of it; on the contrary, Ratbag knew beyond doubt that at the time, he’d been very eager indeed for Talion to continue.  The little Orc squeezed his eyes shut, flinching as a series of images – or impressions – or memories - jolted through him.  They all involved himself and Talion, engaged in….much the same kind of thing.  Them together - but by a different fire.  Up against a wall.  In a shelter, at night, with rain pelting down on the roof - 

Talion speaking kind words to Ratbag.  Smiling at Ratbag.   Bending down and kissing him -

 _What was the Dark Ranger doing to him?_    Ratbag’s fear and terror and panic peaked. 

“You said you wouldn’t do that!” the little Orc cried, hopelessness and desperation at once in his voice.  “Not again, Ranger!  You promised Ratbag.  Talion!  You _promised_ me!”

Talion froze, his fingertips hovering just short of making contact with Ratbag’s forehead.  He stared at Ratbag, searching the Orc’s face for a long moment.  “Ratbag?” he began, cautiously.  “Can you remember?  Now, do you - know me?”

“Yes, Ranger,” Ratbag nodded, reeling and feeling lightheaded with shock under an ongoing onslaught of returning memories.  “ _Yes_ I remember.  You’re _Talion_.”

“Of course I am, Ratbag,” the Ranger said, and both of his hands went up to Ratbag’s face, but not for mind-reading or control.  His hands just sort of – rested there, holding Ratbag gently.  Stroking  slightly. 

And that weird hard-to-read expression was on his face, once again.  “That’s right Ratbag,” he said, and his voice when he spoke to Ratbag was full of warmth, and made the Orc’s heart squeeze with the amount of soft fondness he could hear in it.  “I’m Talion.”   

An irate Celebrimbor materialized in mid-stride then, already in the act of pacing towards Talion across the deck. “You realize this doesn’t change anything,” he snapped, and nodded his head towards the door.  The two Orcs Talion had left to guard it had been subdued – or beaten into submission, and now assorted Uruk-hai were pounding maniacally against it, trying their hardest to break inside.  “We’re in imminent danger of our ship sinking and most of us being drowned, in case you had forgotten, and whereas I realize that you yourself are more than likely to wash up, intact, on shore at some point _eventually,_ the same can’t be said for our ship’s captain, his crew - or the motley collection of Orcish _lummoxes_ you’ve accumulated out there!  It’s as the Captain said.  You either put your brand on him, or let the Captain throw him overboard to save _everyone_!”

“I’d no idea you cared,” Talion said, shortly.   And then to the big Uruk - “Aardek?  You’re not needed here.  You’d better go and – barricade the door.  Strengthen it.  Do _something_.”

“And why _should_ I care?” Celebrimbor exploded.  “What do I care for a rogues’ gallery of Orcs, brigands and smugglers, when at the heart of it this as a simple issue of practicality!  To amass a second batch of these fighting Uruk characters is bound to take up yet more of our valuable _time_.”

“Talion, hurry up about it,” he continued.  “Here’s an idea – you might try ‘holding back,’ if you must, assuming your goal is to avoid any further damage to your ‘delicate flower’ there.”

“I might try ’holding back?’” the Ranger repeated, incredulous.  “How sure are you that your power will work like that, Celebrimbor?   And how can this be the first time that you’re telling this to me?”

The Elf-Wraith considered what Talion had said.  “Well, Talion, I’m _not_ sure that’s how my power works as I’d be the first to admit, and furthermore the idea hadn’t previously occurred to me likely because, until now, I have never put any effort into thinking about it.   I am not in the habit of having to take into account the mental well-being of any sundry _Orcs_ I happen to encounter!  If you’re as cut up as you say you are about the prospect of damaging this one, then simply try and _hold back_ at the same time as you’re branding him, as I’ve said!” 

“Ratbag.”  Talion made a helpless movement with his left hand, one that indicated ‘mind invasion,’ at the same time directing it in the general direction of Ratbag’s right temple.  “It looks like there’s going to be no getting out of this, I’m afraid.”

Looking stricken, the little Orc shook his head.

Talion stepped back from him.  If he had been unsure beforehand, Ratbag’s distress decided it.  “Then you have my word I won’t do it unless you give me your consent.” 

“Bright Master?” Aardek put in, frowning, from his station by the door, “but if Squirt doesn’t come onto our side, didn’t the Bright Master –“ he nodded towards Celebrimbor – “say the Captain wants to throw Squirt off his boat –“

Ratbag leapt to his feet.  “ _What?_ ”

“- and rest assured I _will_ jump straight in after you,” the Ranger told him, with absolute sincerity, “but even then I can’t promise we won’t end up lost at sea.   If I do my best not to hurt you.  Will you - let me?”

Ratbag swallowed apprehensively and sat down on his bed.  “You know how Old Glow-in-the-dark-head told you to put the brakes on?”  He hadn’t been able to see Celebrimbor himself, of course, but he’d been able to listen in on Talion’s side of the conversation when he and the Elf Lord were talking.   “Ranger?  If you was to do that, try and hold back on me, then _maybe_ Ratbag could let you have a try - “

“I won’t hurt you,” Talion repeated hastily.   He fetched the chair, placed it in front of Ratbag and sat down, facing him.  He put his hand up to the Orc’s forehead.  “Ratbag?” he said, adding, a bit belatedly - “do you trust me?”

Ratbag hesitated.  He nodded.

“That’s good.  Now try and just – keep your eyes on me.”

Ratbag was acutely aware of the warmth of Talion’s fingertips as the mental incursion started.  The sensations increased; not to the point of pain as they had done, previously, but they began to steadily flow through him.  And it was a kind of invasion – or more accurately…..an immersion.  The sensation was like –

Well, they were on a ship.  And the ship was at sea.  Perhaps a maritime analogy wouldn’t be _in_ appropriate. 

So, the previous time Talion accessed his thoughts, it had been with all the force and indiscriminate action of a tidal wave; a raw and furious surge of power that had gone crashing – in an irresistible, brutal smash – straight through Ratbag’s head.  It had left him half-drowned and gasping in its wake, metaphorical flotsam – or jetsam - dashed and floundering against cruel, seaweed-covered rocks, with barely a sense of self left to him.  He’d been left stranded, a stranger in his own head.

If that was what it had been like the last time, this time it was more like – it was _just_ like  - a steady sweep of clear, shallow seawater, washing up – and down - and over him, as Ratbag rested on a gently-shelving beach.   White sand, soft and warm beneath him; and an inescapable impression not of unbridled, nameless power and relentless energy but simply of _Talion_ , on the sandy shore.   And with him the Ranger brought - as he always did, from Ratbag’s perspective - warmth and safety; a profound sense of comfort and - the truth was that it wasn’t _at all_ unpleasant.  Quite the reverse.  In fact, it felt  - 

Abruptly, without any kind of warning, the sense of connection ceased.

Talion disengaged his hand from Ratbag’s forehead.  This act had clearly cost him some degree of effort.  The Ranger’s face was white and drawn and he was shaking. 

Ratbag blinked at him, slowly.  He was muzzy-headed and his thoughts were disjointed, and sluggish.  The effects of his recent branding extended into the physical: long-held tension in muscle groups he hadn’t previously been aware of was gone, and perhaps for the first time in his life, the little Orc felt completely relaxed.  “Ranger?” he said.  “Have you done it yet?”

The Ranger nodded, stiffly.  Against the pallor of his face he was now flushed with two spots of heightened ruddy colour, high up on his cheeks.  His eyes were wide open and the pupils standing black and blown.  Talion pushed his hands down into his lap and looked away.  He bit his lips.

The little Orc was incredulous.  He didn’t _feel_ any different.  “That was _it_?”

“Squirt, them ones’ve just this minute stopped hollering after killing you,” Aardek put in, from his station at the door.  “It’s all gone quiet out there.”

“It’s done.”  With an uncharacteristically awkward movement Talion heaved himself upright.  As he half-turned from Ratbag he tripped over his feet, upending the chair he’d been seated on.  The Ranger made no move to right it.  He stumbled past Aardek – shoving the stocky Uruk out of his way – and out through the door.  He left Ratbag without another word; without a backward look at him.

***   

Once out of the Orc’s cabin Talion made his way up to the ship’s deck.  It was now clear of fighting Uruks, more or less.  With Ratbag branded, and the perceived source of their antagonism no longer a factor, they had retreated fore and aft to take what shelter they could find. 

Talion leaned out over the side of the ship.  The storm was abating, but the sideways roll and plunge of the vessel as it was tossed from peak to wave-trough did nothing to assuage the gorge that was rising in his throat.  His head was aching, and his eyes in their sockets felt overly hot.  A different kind of bodily ache was also upon him, centred lower down, between his legs - and the fact of it sickened him.  His thoughts were in turmoil; Talion could not entertain the notion of having reacted in such a way to what had just occurred in Ratbag’s cabin.  A squally, gusting breeze flung a flurry of fat wet raindrops into the Ranger’s face.  The cold water felt refreshing and it helped distract him from some of the pain in his head.

For once Celebrimbor had enough grace to grant Talion a measure of privacy.  That was something.  He left the Ranger where he was, waiting by the guardrail on the deck till the storm had blown itself out and the sky was lightening into morning.

A night spent at sea in a storm had left Talion soaked through with rain and seawater.  He hadn’t yet moved from his place at the side of the ship and was staring disconsolately towards the western horizon when Celebrimbor appeared, the faint silver shimmer of him quietly arriving by the Ranger’s side. 

“Still here, Talion?” he said.  “With your Orc at last restored to you, I would have thought you’d have had a night of vigorously unsavoury, connubial welcoming in store for you at least.  Not this.”

The Ranger’s face was grey with exhaustion.  He turned bloodshot, unhappy eyes towards him.

“Talion.”  The Elf-Wraith’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle.  As if he was sympathetic to Talion, almost.  “It’s _energy_.”

The words stuck in Talion’s throat.  “When I put my brand on him.  Didn’t you see –“

“ _Yes._ ” Celebrimbor said.  “Your Orc’s been a prisoner in a fortress.  What else did you expect?  It goes on all the time, and it just so happens you’ve a blind spot, as you’ve let yourself become a little – sentimental about this one.  But you should know that as far as your – ‘bodily reaction’ goes, it’s not necessarily a case of cause and effect.”

Talion raised his brows questioningly, looking unconvinced.

“Put it this way.  Would you ever want – or rather, do you think you’d ever be likely to _enjoy_ seeing Ratbag treated in that manner?”

The Ranger’s response was immediate and vehement.  “No!  Absolutely not!”

Celebrimbor made a spectral show of camaraderie by attempting to pat Talion on his back.  “Well then!  Problem solved.  As I say - it’s power.  Wraith energy, and it has to go _somewhere_.  When you’re branding Orcs as usual it’s generally a case of ‘him,’ rather than ‘me.’   But, on this occasion, it seems you’ve gotten a taste of your own medicine,” the Elf broke off, and spent a moment studiously schooling his features into a completely expressionless expression – “ with - _‘that’_ -  being the particular, unlooked-for result.

Freshly discomfited, Talion said - “You’re not suggesting that’s what your ‘Wraith energy’ does every time I brand them  –“

Celebrimbor cut him off short.  “I’m certainly not!   It’s expended _much_ more usefully, in disrupting the intricate connections inside their brains.”  He said that part with some relish.  Watching Talion sidelong briefly, he added - “ _now_ what are you looking so cheerful about?”

“’Ratbag,’ you said.” Talion replied.  “So you _do_ know his name.”

The Elf-Wraith sniffed.  “I’m perfectly aware of what the ridiculous creature calls himself.  If only it were possible to get him to _stop_ doing it, that would be quite a different matter – and you know, Talion, as his ‘special friend’ you really ought to consider using your influence to persuade him to change it - ”

Still bickering gently, the Elf-Wraith and Ranger went down below decks.

 

 

TBC.


	12. Playing house

 

On into the morning, for the rest of the day and through the night that followed the Corsair ships carrying Ratbag, Talion, and his branded Orcish soldiers sailed back across the Sea of Núrnen.  With the prevailing wind behind them their return journey was swiftly completed, in much less time than the outgoing leg, and by first light on the morning of the second day they were within sight of a distant shore.  

They sailed into the harbour of a small fishing port later, in mid-morning.  It seemed their arrival was anticipated for there were people on the quayside, ready to meet them.  Ratbag, no longer confined to his cabin since the night of his branding, stood watching from the deck as the ship docked.  He reckoned the people to be Núrnen folk - residents of the region, based on the elaborate bands and braids they wore on their arms and in their hair, and the many-layered intricacies of their bone and leather-work costumes. 

One of the women among them stood out from the rest.  This woman was young, fine-featured, and she was – pretty.  As Talion made his way from ship to shore, the young woman waiting on the dock welcomed him with open arms - with a wide open embrace, literally.   Then they did that double-kissing thing, bussing one another warmly, on both cheeks.   And the Ranger did look happy to see her; much happier than Ratbag had seen him look since the night of the storm. 

Ratbag knew that something between himself and the Ranger had changed that night.  Where once Talion had been honest, and open, there was now a guardedness to him when he spoke to Ratbag that signified not so much as some new distance between them as of a yawning, unbridgeable gulf.  

Or so it felt to Ratbag, at any rate.  But what had changed?  Yes, he knew he’d attacked the Ranger during the battle, but that hadn’t stopped Talion from rescuing him straight after and there were no hard feelings on that score, so far as he could tell.  No, nothing had really changed until – that night.  And then it came to Ratbag.  With a sinking feeling he realized there _were_ other things when Talion was mind-reading him – shameful, ugly things the Ranger must have seen. 

Ratbag, disgracing himself under the duress of torture by Sauron’s Hand.  Kept tied and leashed and muzzled in the bowels of the Fortress; begging, abasing himself - quaking, weeping in terror at the approach of Lieutenant Yanbeg –

The little Orc flicked his ears, irritably: ‘Ratbag the Coward.’   The clue was obvious, there in the name, and he could hardly be accused of having misrepresented himself.  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been like this all along.

Something else was different, and now with the scene being played out on the quayside before him, the answer to that one was obvious, too.

 “ _Who would I tell, Ratbag?_   _Who else would want to know_?” 

Talion, always honest to a fault, had explained it to him that last night they’d spent together.  And it was hardly the Ranger’s fault if Ratbag had been too thick-headed to fully comprehend his meaning at the time.  For there it was, the crux of it.  When it was just the two of them Ratbag had been – if not a good enough companion for Talion exactly, then at least he’d stood in as something _approximating_ adequate.   That was at the time however.  It was plain to see the Ranger had other options open to him now.

“Go on, Squirt.”  Aardek, waiting behind Ratbag, shoved his shoulder, making him stumble and breaking Ratbag out of his unhappy reverie.  “Get a bend on, Squirt!” he repeated.  A disorderly line of Uruk-hai had gathered behind him, all bickering and jostling each other as they waited to disembark.  “Everyone’s waiting on you.”

Ratbag stumbled when the Bonehead pushed him because his sense of balance wasn’t mended and he found it difficult to stay properly upright.  In attempting to walk a straight line, these days Ratbag swayed and weaved as if he was intoxicated, staggering from side to side off-centre like a man blind drunk.  The little Orc had seen how troubled Talion was by his debility, and had been quick to work out ways of minimising it - or at least of minimising the appearance of it.  It was easy enough for him to stay close to some surface – such as a hand-rail, or some furniture - or a wall, that would give him a good idea of what counted as being true vertical.  And then Ratbag could – well, he could try and compensate.

But on the gangplank there was no hand-rail, no furniture, or a wall.  It was a narrow, slatted length of wood slung between the deck of the boat and the dock, over a steep drop into deep, sparkling green water.  Ratbag blanched when he looked at it.  The little Orc was reasonably certain he couldn’t swim, and so he hung back; waiting until the other Orcs, then the remainder of the ship’s crew had passed ahead of him.  To cross to shore he’d have go at it _slowly_ \- and with care –

A few steps in and Ratbag lost his balance and pitched sideways.  His injured leg gave way and he overbalanced onto one knee – and nearly ending up falling right in the drink.  He completed the rest of distance with his claws out and splintering into the wooden gangplank, hunkered down on all fours, clinging to it with both hands  -

(Dignity _bedamned_.  Ratbag had precious little dignity to speak of anyway)

So he crawled forwards doggedly, on his belly.  Yes _._  By now Ratbag had at last absorbed that painful message.  He knew very well that he was just like a dog.

By the time he reached the pier, Talion and his girlfriend.  They’d gone on ahead.

The Ranger’s pack and some of his kit was on the dock.   It was a warm day and he’d taken off his cloak and left it folded, alongside his other things.  That meant that sooner or later he’d be coming back for it. 

Sooner or later he’d come back for it.  _Probably_. 

Ratbag dragged the various items underneath the harbour pilings.  It was a warm day, and the sun was glaring bright and much too hot.  Above the high-water mark, the sand beneath the jetty was dry, and felt pleasantly cool to the touch.  Sheltered in the shadows, Ratbag put his head on Talion’s kitbag, and lay down with his arms around the Ranger’s cloak.

It was pathetic.  Ratbag _knew_ it was pathetic.  But he had no dignity to speak of, and Talion was lost to him.  Just to be near to the things that Talion had once had close to him – it wasn’t much, but it helped.

The Ranger found Ratbag resting there, when the shadows were lengthening, late on in the afternoon.  “Ratbag?” he exclaimed.  “Where were you?”

The little Orc started up, looking guilty.  “Nowhere!” he said.  “Ratbag’s just been – stopping here.”

“I missed you earlier.”

The Orc made no reply.  _Did you._

“I thought you’d follow me.   I was sure you’d follow me.  It’s what you usually do.”

Ratbag hesitated.  “Ratbag could see that you were busy.”

“Busy?”

Talion wasn’t a cruel man, but it _was_ cruel of him – and Ratbag wondered if Talion realized how cruel, in his new-found happiness he was being - to want to force Ratbag to spell it out like this.  “Ratbag knew you’d be busy with your lady,” he said, not looking at him.  “With her who’s all –“ Ratbag broke off, gesturing dejectedly with his hands.  “Her with the pretty braids in her hair.” 

“With my – with _Lithariel_?  Lithariel the Princess?”

So the woman Talion loved was a bona fide _princess_.   _Of course_ she was a princess, and wasn’t that terrific.  Even her name had the sound of sweet soft music. 

This was – it was bloody – _typical_! 

Talion bent down.  He ducked in under the dock and sat down in the sand beside Ratbag.  “Lithariel is strong, determined, compassionate and brave.  She’s an admirable person.  I’ve no doubt that one day she’ll be a fine leader of her people, and – anyone can see that she _is_ lovely, Ratbag, but Lithariel’s not for me.  I’m an undead Wraith.  I’m called ‘Gravewalker’.  He placed his hand on the Orc’s shoulder and clasped it gently.  “I didn’t think you, of all people, would forget.” 

“Ratbag didn’t forget.”  And, after a moment, when Talion didn’t reply, he continued: “and it’s not just ‘Gravewalker’ now ‘cause you know, Ranger, in Mordor, they’re calling you ‘the Dark Ranger,’ too.”

Talion raised his eyebrows, looking amused.  “Are they?  Well one thing they might not know in Mordor is - the ‘Dark Ranger’s’ - already spoken for.  I’m spoken for in this world, and the next.”

The little Orc blinked at him, uncertain.  “Talion?  What d’you mean?”

Talion regarded him steadily.  “ _Yours_ , Ratbag.  Remember?” 

Ratbag wasn’t saying it was unpleasant, but still it was a shock to hear him just – come out with it so casually, repeating that thing he’d said, again.  “Ratbag wouldn’t blame you!”  he exclaimed, shuffling backwards from Talion in embarrassment and confusion, slipping and sliding in the sand.  “Ratbag would _never_ hold you to it, he swears!  He doesn’t blame you for wanting to change your mind.”

Talion caught hold of Ratbag’s hand, shushing him.  “I meant what I said.”

Ratbag looked away.  “Ratbag thought  –  I thought you must’ve changed your mind.”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” the Ranger said.  He pulled Ratbag close against his side.  “I missed you.”

Now, this was Talion all over wasn’t it?  Determined to stay true to his word till the end of things as a point of principle, even when doing that made _no earthly sense_.  That meant it was going to be up to Ratbag, as usual, to try to make him see.  “You needn’t have missed Ratbag,” he told him.  “You’ve got other Orcs now.  Better Orcs, who haven’t been – “ he stopped.  Ratbag didn’t like where his thoughts were taking him with this -

_(Tortured.  Mutilated.  Brainwashed by the Black Hand.)_

He tried again.  “And not just Orcs.  Anyone can she likes you.  Lithariel.  That princess –“

Talion interrupted, cutting him off.   “I’ve already got my Orc.” He placed a sweet, lingering kiss on the top of Ratbag’s head.  “Ratbag, I missed _you_.”

Quite possibly Ratbag’s strength of will was in deficit, or perhaps it was an effect of having recently been branded that made Talion so difficult for him to resist.  Whatever the reason, it came as a relief for Ratbag to be able to press himself to Talion’s side.  “Sometimes Ratbag thinks you’re barmy, Ranger,” Ratbag muttered, then added - “Glow-in-the-dark-head thinks so too.”

Celebrimbor was indeed present, but Talion had been assiduously ignoring it. “If the Elf-Lord Celebrimbor thinks I’m ‘barmy’ then he’s also well aware that he’s the one responsible for it.”  Then, considering what the Orc said he exclaimed – “Ratbag?  Does that mean you can see –“

“Yes, Ranger,” the Orc nodded.  “Since that night you did – what you did, sometimes I can see the outline of him.  When the light’s right.”

“In that case,” Celebrimbor said, also ducking in under the dock - although the truth was that the solid wooden structure would have appeared to pass straight through him unimpeded even if he hadn’t bent his shoulders and his head - “in that case do be kind enough to tell your Orc that you and I have better things to do than to be found loitering, here by a Núrnen waterfront.  We’ve urgent matters outstanding that need to be addressed – that you and I must see to _swiftly_.”

Talion looked up at him in surprise.  “Didn’t you hear what Ratbag said?” he said, mildly.  “It looks as if you’re going to be able to tell these things to him yourself, rather than -” and here the Ranger’s face darkened, and something dangerous began to register in his tone – “rather than having to make use of your _‘chosen vessel_ ’ as a go-between.  This time you can play at being your own mouth-piece.” 

“Your attitude over this – I find it _impossible._   I’ve been _at pains_ to explain my reasoning to you.”

“I understand your reasoning, Celebrimbor.  I’ll be with you in three days.”

“ _Three days_?  But – our quest!  We’ve things we need to do!  You can’t possibly intend to waste the next three days…..’ _playing house_ ’ with an _Orc_!  Not when _finally_ we have a sound idea of the whereabouts of the Hand!  It’s unconscionable!”

“You’re right.  Three days isn’t long enough.  Five days, then.”

The Elf spluttered, outraged and incredulous. “ _Unacceptable_!”

“In that case, I’ll see you in a week.”

Celebrimbor, incensed, paced back and forth in front of them.  “A week then.  And in exactly _one week_ , Talion – make sure you’ve said your fond goodbyes and be sure you’re ready to depart.”  Instead of simply disappearing, the Elf-Wraith turned his back on Talion and Ratbag and stalked away across the sand.  His intention was clearly that he felt he was making some kind of point.

Ratbag looked from Talion to Celebrimbor and back again.  “Ranger?  Is something…up between you?”

“What makes you think that?” Talion said, as he watched the Elf-lord go.  “No, it’s nothing.  At least, it’s nothing new.”  Sighing, he turned to Ratbag.  “Now, Ratbag,” he said, “I was busy with the Princess this morning, as you put it, but that was because I needed Lithariel’s help to arrange something.”  He ducked out from under the dock and stood, dusting sand from his breeches.  “Come on.  I’ll show you.”

He led the Orc, following the strandline, along the beach.  After a moment of watching Ratbag closely, Talion offered him his arm. 

“How difficult do you find it?”

Ratbag looked studiously down at the ground.  “What would that be, Ranger?”

“Walking with your back straight.  I saw that you were having trouble before.  I hoped it was only because we were on a ship.”

Ratbag shook his head.  “There’s no need for you to worry about Ratbag.  Ratbag’s _fine_.”

“Of course you are.  Here.  Lean on me.”  Talion gave the Orc his arm and had him rest some of his weight on him. 

Talion was solid, upright; more that adequately qualified to give Ratbag a sound impression of what counted as being vertical and true.  But now, walking with Talion’s assistance, by his side, Ratbag found it funny how very little that mattered to him. 

The sandy beach and strandline were within the boundary of a small Núrnen settlement that had grown up around the natural harbour where the Corsair Captain’s ships had docked.  Talion and Ratbag walked to the edge of the village, past a one-room tavern and a handful of fishermen’s huts, until they came to a steeply sloping path that zig-zagged its way up the side of a rounded, grassy cliff.

The sun was setting behind them and was suffusing the late summer evening with a soft, glowing pink light by the time they climbed to half-way.  There they rested for a moment on a lichen-covered outcrop of rock, with the salt smell of the sea, the wash of the waves down on the beach and the cries of sea birds filling the air all around them until Ratbag felt dizzy with it.   

The Ranger had been staring out over the bay and Ratbag had been staring at Talion.  As he turned towards Ratbag, the Orc’s breath caught in his throat.  Talion was smiling at him.  The wind was in his hair and his eyes looked luminous and soft in the unearthly light of the gloaming.   “It’s not much further,” he said.  “It’s the house just up there – see?”

He was showing Ratbag a low, turf-roofed cottage a short distance uphill.  The little house was set on a level piece of ground, at the top of a short flight of flagstone-topped steps that had been cut into the turf.  It was nestled in under the shoulder of the grassy cliff and had walls made of the same, lichen-spotted grey stone. 

“Yes, I see.”  Ratbag jumped down onto the path and overbalanced forwards with an ungainly lurch, fumbling his landing.  “What about it – argh!”   

Talion had moved close in to steady him.  He swept Ratbag up into his arms and carried him up the steps, _exactly_ the way he’d carried him off the battlefield before.  Yes, now Ratbag knew who’d been carrying him that day.  Before the Orc had time to open his mouth to protest Talion was carrying on over the threshold and into the house.   

They stepped from the front doorstep directly into a small, square living-room.  There was whitewash on its thick stone walls and it had a single window, with wooden shutters, thrown open now, across.  The sea breeze blew straight in through it, making the coals glow orange-red in a banked fire that was burning in the grate.  Talion set Ratbag down in an armchair positioned on one side of the fireplace and crouched down at the other, attending to a cooking-pot that was suspended from a hook over the hearth.

“Talion, who lives here?” Ratbag asked him carefully.       

Again the Ranger smiled at him.  “You and me, Ratbag.  Or at least we will do, for the next week or so.”

“Ah.”  So _that_ was what the Elf-lord Celebrimbor meant when he’d berated Talion for wanting to ‘play house.’  Ratbag scrambled to his feet and crossed over to the other side of the fire.  Looking over the Ranger’s shoulder, he made a pretence of finding out what Talion was doing. 

The Ranger was making stew.  But it was an excuse for Ratbag to be close to him.  No more than that, really.

“Ranger?” he exclaimed.  “You can cook?”

Talion was nonplussed.  “But I’ve cooked for you before, Ratbag,” he said.  “I’ve cooked for you _often_.”

“Well yeah, Ranger, I know you can _roast_ stuff - hang it on the fire and that, but this is like  - using pots and pans and all fancy ingredients, isn’t it?”  The Orc nodded towards a stoneware pot of one such ingredient.  Talion had just scattered a pinch of it over the surface of the stew.

“This?” the Ranger said.  “Ratbag, this is _salt_.”

Ratbag nodded seriously.  “Fancy ingredients, like I said.  Wiv’ – _sauces._ Ratbag knows that counts as proper cooking, kind of thing.”

Talion turned towards him.  “I was a family man.  We didn’t have anyone to help us when my son was small, so it was only fair.  I did my share.”

“This was to help your wife.”  Ratbag said, and waited.  It was obvious there was more the Ranger wanted to say. 

“That’s right.  At the time we were on our own because Ioreth, my wife, was estranged from her family – she was forever estranged from them, because of me.  I’d few prospects, you see, and they were against our marriage.  Didn’t approve when the two of us - took up together.  And afterwards, we lived for years on the gate  – on that _accursed_ Black Gate, and that was my decision too.  Ioreth and my son – Dirhael – they both _died_ because of that decision, Ratbag.  On my account.  Their deaths were my fault - no-one else’s, and I’ll always carry that knowledge with me.” He sighed wearily, looking haggard.   And now after all this time, after the all damage and suffering I’ve brought to the people close to me  – there’s you.”   With his thumb Talion stroked along the long, ugly marks beneath Ratbag’s cheek-bones, where for months the muzzle had bitten deep into his skin.  “I saw what the Hand did, Ratbag, when I put my brand on you.” 

No.  No, no, _no_!  Ratbag swallowed down an anguished noise – a raw sound of distress that was rising, unbidden, in his throat.  The Ranger was letting him know that he had – _seen_ \- and it was just, _exactly_ as he’d feared.  He backed away from Talion, waving his hands in a helpless, placating gesture.  “Ratbag’s sorry, Ranger.  He’s _sorry_.  He couldn’t help it.”

“You’re sorry?” the Ranger’s tone was incredulous.  “For being tortured?”   

A thrill of panic sent the Orc off-balance.  This was going from bad to worse.  “Don’t be angry!  Ratbag’s never been - strong.  He _knows_ he hasn’t much about him.  Please don’t be angry!  I couldn’t – Ratbag couldn’t help it.”

“ _What_?”

Ratbag’s vision was going fuzzy and the pound of blood, rushing, sounded loudly in his ears. He’d made a grave mistake – cocked things up again, profoundly, and been caught out in it.  He knew he’d earned himself a punishment from his Master -  this time he was really going to be for it-  and that the only thing he could do now was to try and make a clean breast of it and confess.   He faltered backwards until his back hit a wall, then turned and put his face to it.  “I wasn’t brave.  Ratbag wasn’t – he yelled and screamed and cried and – he _messed_ himself.  He begged –“  

His reaction was only going to make things worse.  Ratbag knew it, and yet could not help but jump in fright and cringe when the Master put his hand on him.   He turned him round – then Ratbag felt strong arms enfolding him, crushing him to his chest.  His head spun with confusion because that was not –  it wasn’t at all the way Ratbag, ordinarily, would’ve expected such a scenario between himself and the pervert – between Ratbag and _Ratbag’s Master_ \- to play itself out.  For a long moment the Orc could not summon up the courage to look at him.  And when he did he saw that it was -

 _Not_ his old Master – it was his Ranger.  It was Talion.  He was with Talion, and Talion looked distraught. 

“It’s all right.  It’s all right,” the Ranger was insisting.  “I know what happened, I - _saw_ what happened and I don’t blame you.  You were crying, wanting me to come and save you but I didn’t, Ratbag –“

Frowning, the Orc blinked his red-rimmed eyes at him.  “But Ratbag didn’t expect you to, Ranger,” he said.  His voice dropped to a fearful whisper.  “The Hand made me forget about you.  Didn’t you see?  He made Ratbag forget about _everything_.  If only he could’ve been stronger - ” the Orc stopped short, and hung his head.  “It was Ratbag’s doing.  Nothing to do with you.”

“The fault wasn’t yours,” Talion said flatly.  “What the Hand – what the others did – we both know that none of that would have happened if not for me.”

“If not for you,” Ratbag replied, “and him wanting to play his silly games with you, the Hand would’ve had Ratbag killed on the spot.  It’s only ‘cause of you that Ratbag’s even here.  He’s maybe a bit worse for wear, but – still here.”

Still Talion did his best to explain.  “The reason I didn’t come for you is because I thought you were dead.  After the fighting I searched the battleground looking for you, but all I could find were some remnants of your armour.  Broken.  Empty.  It was covered with blood and I knew you’d never have left that behind, not willingly.  And I’d seen the Hammer hit you with his mace.  It didn’t look as if you could have survived that, and by the time I got there it was too late.  I was certain he’d killed you.” 

Ratbag looked up, visibly showing interest for the first time since they’d started this difficult conversation.  “You’ve got my armour?”

Talion shifted slightly, looking uncomfortable.  “I’m sorry Ratbag.  I didn’t keep hold of it.  I’d nowhere to store it.  I don’t have your things any more.”

“Talion?  What’s happened to my kit?”

“I - buried it.”

Ratbag’s face fell.  “You dumped my stuff in a hole the ground?  Into some unmarked _grave_?”

The Ranger’s brows went down in a frown and his mouth drew into a thin, unhappy line.  “I didn’t say it wasn’t marked.”  He hesitated.  “I….planted flowers on it.”

Ratbag just looked at him, his head tilted on one side.  He had _no_ idea _whatsoever_ what he should make of that.  “Oh,” he said, “did you?” 

“I planted rock roses and silverweed,” Talion volunteered, after a minute.  “Mullein, too.  Those plants grow best in barren soil, the kind you have in Mordor.  And - they’ve all got yellow flowers.”

There was a message in that, something else Talion was clearly trying to tell him.  But Ratbag, as he stood thinking, and blinking his yellow-and-orange eyes, had no earthly idea what it might have been.  He couldn’t’ve said, not for the _life_ of him.

“Yellow’s……nice enough, I suppose,” the Orc conceded, since it was obvious that some response was expected of him.  He’d never really considered the merits of yellow before.

“Yes Ratbag,” Talion replied, nodding seriously.  “I’ve come to like it very much, too.”

 

TBC


	13. Trained very well

 

They ate the dinner that Talion had cooked them at a rickety kitchen table in the main room.  The planks were made of driftwood, but the Ranger had covered them with a faded blue square of tablecloth and even added, for decoration, a small earthenware pot of water that had a bunch of spiky-blossomed, bright-pink flowers propped up in it.  It was same type of plant that Ratbag had seen growing in amongst the turf and rocks out on the sea cliff.    

After they’d eaten Ratbag took himself on a tour of the rest of the house.  It was a two-roomed cottage, and not an exacting task for him.  The other room was the bedroom, and had a large, wooden bedstead in it.  Talion had made the bed up neatly, with fresh-smelling blankets and clean sheets.  He’d already turned the covers down.

Given the floral tribute theme he’d already been establishing here in the house and elsewhere, Ratbag was relieved to see that he hadn’t gone so far as to actually strew rose-petals over it.    

Talion was sitting by the fire when Ratbag rejoined him.  The Ranger was staring into the flickering flames, looking hollow-eyed and also, as Ratbag registered for the first time, decidedly unkempt.  He had an increasingly ragged air about him that went beyond his worn and battle-stained clothes and trappings; it was replicated in length of his hair, his beard, and in the deep-worn lines of care and sorrow that were clear to see across his face.  There was dirt ingrained in the creases of his skin and, caught at the side of his face behind his ear, a dried-on splotch of nameless gore that had resisted what must have been - at best –  Talion’s perfunctory efforts to scrub at it.  As he looked at him, Ratbag felt his heart give an odd little squeeze in his chest.  His poor Ranger!  And just what, exactly, had Talion been doing with his time over all those months they’d been apart?  What impossible, inhuman feats of Wraith-mediated endurance had he been inflicting upon himself – or worse, had Talion had imposed upon him?

Ratbag went straight to the Ranger’s side and crouched down by the fire.  “Talion?  What is it?” he asked him.  “What’s wrong?”

The Ranger leaned forwards with his shoulders hunched and regarded Ratbag wearily.  There was a deep sadness - an almost-palpable air of despair – of desolation - about him, and he hesitated before he began to speak, as if carefully weighing the decision.  “The longer I spend – _joined_ – with him,” he began explaining, at last, as his mouth twisted with distaste, “the more the Elf-lord seems to predominate.  I’ve been stabbed in the heart – in the gut – been thrown to my death more times than I can count and each time I die, and then - I don’t know how it happens - but I come back from it, and every time I do I come back with - _less_ \- of me than there was before.  The truth, Ratbag, is that I don’t belong here.  I barely need to sleep – or even eat, any more.” 

Ratbag took a moment to absorb that.  The very homeliness, the everyday domesticity of these surroundings - it must have stood in stark contrast to what had become the Ranger’s usual experience as a Wraith. 

It was no wonder he was filled with despair!  The horror of those repeated deaths he was speaking of, alone….but Ratbag couldn’t bring himself to think about the deaths as yet.  Worse, if that were possible, was the other aspect of it, for Talion was only describing to Ratbag – telling him in unhappy, matter-of-fact tones about the steady erosion of what was left of his _humanity_ , wasn’t he? 

“What’s all this –“ the Orc gestured at the dinner table, the bedstead in the next room - all of it, feeling at a loss.  “What’s this to do wiv’, then?”

The Ranger smiled at him, sadly.  “You say you don’t sleep but you’re recuperating, still.  And you need food, don’t you?”  

“You’ve gone to all this trouble on my account?”

“You look like you’re more in need of a good few decent meals than you ever were, Ratbag,” Talion said.  “You’ve lost weight since I last saw you - not that there was ever enough of you to begin with.”  And he ran his hand, warm and callused, over Ratbag’s ribs.  His touch, as it always did, provoked all kind of acute and bewildering reactions in the Orc and before he knew what he was doing he was on his feet and then sort of – collapsing onto Talion; the next moment he found he’d folded himself against him.   

Ratbag put his arms round the Ranger’s neck and clung to him.  Talion hugged back hard, hanging on tight, and there was a something convulsive, a sense of desperation in the gesture.  And who _wouldn’t_ be desperate, sharing Talion’s circumstances and position?  These past months he’d been alone with his grief, but for the relentless, uncompromising shade of Celebrimbor.  With nothing beyond the endless days spent in slaughter, wreaking unspeakable carnage and destruction and existing, all the while, with the knowledge that each fresh death he endured brought him ever-closer to losing the last remnants of the person he’d once  been, before.

“Don’t get killed any more then, Ranger,” Ratbag told him with perfect seriousness, “ _that’s_ what you do.  If you don’t die, see, you don’t stop being you.”  

In spite of himself Talion huffed a noise of quiet amusement into the Orc’s hair.  “You really think it’s as easy as that, do you?”

Ratbag drew back from him, nodding vehemently.  “ _Don’t die_ , Talion.  You mustn’t stop being you.”  He searched the Ranger’s face for a moment, then their mouths were on each other’s and Talion was kissing him.  Ratbag kissed back.  _They_ were kissing -   

The Ranger strained towards him.  He had his eyes shut and made a small, shuddering sound in his throat.

Their kiss went on, and it was soft, and deep, and slow.  Nothing like the last time – any of the times before.  There was next to no heat in it, but to Ratbag it did feel wonderfully soothing, and reassuring.  Their closeness; the sense of being tangled up with Talion.  That _was_ comforting – and, his poor Ranger.   It was obvious from his reaction how much Talion also was in need of this and, judging from the way he was holding on and holding on, refusing to let go, that must have been nearly as much as Ratbag needed it, too.

Still hugging hold of him, Talion picked Ratbag up and carried him.  This seemed to be a new habit the Ranger was settling into, and Ratbag wasn’t sure yet how he felt about it.  A few stumbling steps and he was setting the Orc down carefully, in the next room, on the bed.

“It’s not to – we don’t have to _do_ anything,” he said, ducking his head.  “I only wanted  –“

Closeness.  Comfort.  _Companionship._  There was no need for him to say any of it.  Ratbag understood exactly the sense of the words he’d left unsaid.  He took Talion’s hand and pulled him down onto the mattress beside him.  “It’s all right Ranger,” he told him, “I know.  And Ratbag wants  – _I_ do, too.”

They got under the covers.   Talion had removed his boots and outer clothes and armour, but not his breeches or his undershirt.  He rolled the Orc onto his side, then pulled Ratbag towards him until Ratbag’s back was pressed flush against his front.  Then, with his arm clutching Ratbag close across the chest, he sort-of…. _aligned_ the rest of him to fit the curve of Ratbag’s body.  The position they were in put Ratbag in mind of a pair of mismatched spoons in a cutlery drawer, but he couldn’t deny that they nested together comfortably; _very_ comfortably.  Talion gave a gentle sigh and kissed the side of the Orc’s face.

In no time at all the rhythm of the Ranger’s breathing slowed and deepened.  Back when he and Ratbag had been travelling together, Ratbag had spent a great deal of time standing watch over Talion.  He’d spent so many nights, standing and watching Talion, that it was easy for him to tell that in spite of what he’d claimed about no longer needing it, the unfortunate Wraith-Ranger had quickly fallen fast asleep.  And as they rested – and slept together, Ratbag soon found that he himself was following, not far behind.

***

The pattern they’d follow over the next few days was established in the morning.  Talion would wake early, and cook them breakfast.  Afterwards, before the heat the day took hold they’d leave the cottage and wander out on the cliffs, or walk down past the fishing village.  They might gather driftwood, by the shore.  Then back to the cottage for another meal.  In the evening they’d sit together, by the fire, before the Ranger would start making dinner. 

It wasn’t lost on Ratbag that Talion himself ate very little of it.  Nor did he fail to notice that the food the Ranger made was always….certainly it was well-prepared, and even to Ratbag’s untutored palate it tasted good, but a recurring theme was that all of it was also cooked to tender, melting perfection.  Scrambled eggs, rich and thick with oil and spices in the mornings; hearty soups, appetising stews…for some reason Talion restricted himself to preparing soft-textured, mashed or slow-cooked dishes; the kind of foods that would be easy for, say, a recovering invalid to eat.  

The _other_ thing preoccupying Talion at this time was that he was clearly trying to ingratiate Ratbag with the residents of the region.  The Orc, for one, couldn’t see it happening.  More often than not they would encounter fishermen, or other locals on their morning outings and Talion would invariably stop and engage them in conversation, at some point introducing them to Ratbag, almost as an aside.  The Núrnen-folk were, to the last man and woman deeply suspicious of him, but this was understandable.  For years the lands around the Sea of Núrn had been a prime hunting-ground for Orc and Uruk slavers working out of Mordor.  They’d been capturing and enslaving the shore-dwellers of the Sea of Núrn for generations, and though diminishing returns had eventually brought an end to it, the region remained sorely underpopulated in the aftermath of their efforts.  Ratbag couldn’t blame the few Núrn-folk remaining for looking at an Orc askance.

They had just returned to the house after a particularly fraught encounter with a Núrnen fishing-captain. The irate old gentleman, yelling a stream of incomprehensible insults, had tried to throw the remains of his catch of the day over Ratbag’s head 

“I don’t know what you want to get Ratbag to talk to these people for,” Ratbag told Talion, as he wiped fish scales and fish-slime from his face.  “They don’t want to speak to me.  They don’t even want to _look_ at me.  You know they don’t like that the two of us are stopping here.”

“They’re Lithariel’s subjects,” Talion replied, quite calmly -

Well the Ranger ruddy well _would_ be calm in this situation, wouldn’t he?  Seeing as he wasn’t the one who’d recently had half a basket of wet fish slung at his head -

“Here.  You’ve missed a bit,” Talion added, picking free a small fin-fragment that had become entangled in Ratbag’s scraggly beard.  “Lithariel’s the one allowing us to stay,” he continued.  “We’re both here with her permission.  If any of them should…take real issue with us being here, they’d go to her first.  I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I know they know I’m staying with you.  But what do they think Ratbag’s doing here, Talion?”

Talion ruffled his fingers through the hair on top of Ratbag’s head.  “They’ll most likely assume you’re one of my Orcs, who’s – “ the Ranger stopped for a moment, considering.  “I’ve sent the others on ahead –“

And this, the Ranger had done.  When Ratbag asked him about it, about where Aardek the Bonehead and his compatriots were bedding down, Talion had told him that he’d sent them on as an advance party, to march towards the Black Gate.  As Ratbag understood things, he intended to re-join –  or rather as Talion put it - ‘catch up with’ - his branded Uruks at some point once his and Ratbag’s week together was up, but as to the specifics of how he intended to accomplish this, given their head start and the great distances involved, the Dark Ranger had remained stubbornly vague.

“The others have gone on ahead,” Talion was saying, “so I suppose you could’ve stayed here to….help me with things around the place.  That could easily be the reason.”

“’Ratbag’s stayed to - help you about the place?” the Orc repeated.  “Like – a servant?” he thought about that briefly, and then his eyes widened and his face fell.  “Like Ratbag’s your _slave,_ I bet.”  He put his hands over his mouth and groaned.  “Like you’ve taken him for your _bed-slave_.” 

As he stared at Talion, Ratbag realized that the Ranger had that look on his face he sometimes got.  It was a carefully-crafted, neutral kind of expression, one he occasionally adopted when he and Ratbag were talking about something that Ratbag was considering with utmost seriousness, and Talion was - not.  When the Ranger replied he spoke kindly, yet didn’t quite succeed in keeping the smile out of his voice.  “I’m sure nothing like that will have occurred to any of them.”

“Talion, they’re going to think you’ve been keeping me here and making me – _do stuff_.  They’ll think you branded me to get me to do it!”

“And they’d be right, because I _have_ branded you, Ratbag.  Actually, I’ve branded you twice –“

“You didn’t do it for _that_!” the Orc exclaimed, feeling curiously indignant, but for Talion’s, rather than his own sake.  “And the second time – that barely even counts.”

“That’s not true.  Because I think you’ll find –“

“Yeah?  Try giving me an order then, Talion!” 

“I don’t see why that’s going to be necessary  -“

“You reckon?  Go on and make it something Ratbag _doesn’t_ want to do.”

The Ranger shrugged, and with an exasperated sigh, shook his head.  “Go clean my boots Orc, sweep the floor -”

Like a compass needle swinging north, Ratbag physically turned towards the besom-broom that was propped beside the door - but in the next instant had shaken himself free of Talion’s influence and was turning back to the Ranger with a growl.  

“See that, Talion?  Ratbag’s only able to do _that_ ‘cause you half-arsed it!  You know you did.”

“Of course I did!  You were in a fragile state, that night on the boat –“

“I’m not fragile.  Not any more.  There’s no need for you to keep treating Ratbag like he’s made of _glass._ ”

“I know you’re not made of glass,” Talion said.  His tone was placating, and he smiled at the Orc fondly before turning away from him.  At the kitchen table he began wiping his hands on a dishcloth.  He was clearly about to start –

Preparing yet another meal for Ratbag!   Cooking!  _Again!_   And that was _not_ what Ratbag needed – or wanted, just then, from him.

The problem wasn’t that there wasn’t physical contact, because on the contrary, they touched.  There was a _great deal_ of touching; more of it, if anything, than there had been between them before.  They’d spend long hours in perfect contact with one another at night, when they rested together in the bed.  And, when they were walking, Talion might take the Orc’s hand – or more often he’d hold Ratbag with an arm thrown across his shoulders, or close against his side.  He’d touch him – pat him - _pet_ him – at any time, often, throughout the day  – and they embraced.  Sometimes, even, they kissed; more of the sweet, chaste, comforting kisses that they had exchanged on their first night in the house.  The trouble was that none of it ever _went_ anywhere.  And Ratbag wasn’t saying it wasn’t _nice,_ its way - because it _was._   But it was also exquisitely frustrating.

Ratbag watched the Ranger sidelong as he went about his business.  He’d never had any truck with any of that ‘weakness is strength’ malarkey.  It was obvious.  All Orcs understood, and Orcs like Ratbag inherently knew that weakness was - weakness.  But, Ratbag reasoned, perhaps there was, or could be for the right kind of person, someone who had tendencies towards being a defender of the weak, some kind of weird, upside-down…. _attraction_ in it?

First there was the issue of the Ranger choosing - not just to be with an Orc, but an Orc like _Ratbag._   And, as Ratbag now realized, Talion being sorely in want other of options no longer stood up as an adequate explanation for it.  With not only a princess, but brawny, top-tier Uruks of the likes of Aardek simply falling over themselves, left and right, to ingratiate themselves with him, if he wanted the Ranger could’ve taken his pick. 

But no.  He’d cleaved, steadfast and resolute throughout, to Ratbag, and maybe that meant there was a hint of something ever so slightly dog-like about Talion too; at least as far as his loyal attitude went.  Irrespective of the reason behind it, he’d cleaved to an Orc who was battered.  Routinely abused.  Victimized and mistreated by almost everyone he met. 

Someone who – and Ratbag had no problem about facing the thing head-on and acknowledging it – someone who, in his dealings with Talion, and others, was more than a little bit submissive.

Thinking furiously, Ratbag regarded Talion, his head tilted to one side.  So what if it was to do with opposites attracting, and that?  He remembered – and remembered vividly - Talion’s gratifying reaction to the sight of Ratbag sampling a lick or two of his own sauce.  And, all those nights he’d spent, holding Ratbag down and bringing Ratbag off.  In the past he’d certainly seemed to enjoy _watching_ Ratbag enough, hadn’t he?

A return to basics with an appeal to what might or might not be the Ranger’s mildly….voyeuristic tendencies could be in order.  Maybe….maybe _that_ was how he could get this thing back on track.  In for a penny, as they said.

Ratbag crossed the room and went and stood in front of Talion.  He straightened up as much as he was able and looked him in the eye.  “Ratbag’s _not_ fragile,” he told him.  “He _bends_.  Doesn’t break.  And Ratbag’s been well trained, hasn’t he?  Means he can do – party tricks.”

Unbuckling his breeches, Ratbag took himself in hand and sat down at Talion’s feet, almost right on top of them.  His stick was half-hard already.  Well _of course_ it was.  These days, merely being in the same _room_ as Talion was likely to bring about that reaction in him, which meant he was more or less half-hard all the time, and it took only a few strokes of his hand until he was fully erect.  That, added to the memory of how it had felt when Talion, quite oblivious to the effect he was having, had absent-mindedly ordered Ratbag about…..because there had been a definite frisson for Ratbag, that had shivered through him both ways: at first when he’d found himself unthinkingly obeying the Ranger, and then again, when he’d defied him.  Ratbag tried – a little frantically, to hold onto the memory of that feeling as he spread his legs and doubled over on himself.  It had been strong enough, what he’d felt just then, to make him think he’d be able – that perhaps he could _perform_ , a bit, off the back of it.  The Orc collapsed his ribcage, letting out the breath he’d been holding.  Then he began doing his best to get his head right down into his lap so he could manage to take the tip of his erection into his mouth. 

It had been a very long time since Ratbag had attempted anything like this.  The circumstances under which he’d been required to display himself in this manner previously had stripped away much of what otherwise would’ve quite likely been his enjoyment from the process.  Because otherwise, in all honesty, who _wouldn’t_ welcome a chance to do this?

All other things being equal, Ratbag thought he might not’ve, but it was difficult for him to disentangle how he felt about the act he was engaged in, in and of itself, and how it had felt when his erstwhile Master - and his associates -  had demanded it of him -

He’d been demeaned.  Objectified…humiliated.  None of it had exactly been _pleasant_  -

And because of this Ratbag wasn’t certain he’d have wanted to be able to do it.  But he could, so supposed that whatever point there was in all of this was rendered largely moot.

The position he was in as he hunkered further over on himself placed a great deal of strain across his shoulders, and made the joints in his spine stretch and pop to an alarming extent.  He wasn’t _near_ so flexible as the Ratbag of many years ago, but still nailed it on the first attempt (so to speak); maybe not managing to reach _all_ the way as he would’ve had to, before, but certainly far enough so his lips were encircling at least the head of his stick.  

Ratbag swirled his pointed tongue round the topmost piercing in a deliberate, lewd movement, undertaken purely for Talion’s benefit.  Not that what he was doing _felt_ unpleasant - putting aside the increasing tension in the bones of his neck and his back, it felt quite the opposite; but it did however share definite similarities with the sensation of tickling oneself, in that if a person wanted to feel that they’d enjoyed a good and thorough tickling, a fine idea would be for them to get some other person involved in the process.  That, in essence, was what Ratbag thought about mouthing his own stick: it just wasn’t the same when you were the one who ended up doing it.

But, nevertheless.  Ratbag wasn’t putting himself through this for the purpose of self-gratification.  That wasn’t his _immediate_ goal - not yet, at any rate.  What he was doing was, that instead of thinking of him as an invalid, he was….well!  He was…trying to get Talion back into the habit of seeing him as -  as -  like a _sexual_ being. 

(Or something.  He thought.)

And this- it seemed to be doing the trick.  All right.  So maybe there was something of a delay in his companion’s reaction.  Perhaps it _did_ take the Ranger a second or two to properly process what Ratbag was doing – what Talion was seeing.  But, as full realization struck him, Ratbag heard him draw in a quick gust of breath; inhaling sharply, in surprise.

“ _Ratbag!_ ” Talion exclaimed, with the Orc’s name sounding raw, and rough, in his throat.  He sat down suddenly beside Ratbag, hitting the ground with a thump as if his legs had buckled, or had just been swept from under him. 

“ _Ratbag_ ,” he repeated, “you’re –“

The Orc flicked his gaze up, risking a quick look at him.   A healthy measure of disgust, overlain with – should fortune happen to be smiling upon him – morbid curiosity were what he was expecting.  Instead the Ranger was staring at him with a fixed expression, incredulous, yet at the same time utterly rapt.  The look on Talion’s face was one of repressed longing, and desire.  Ratbag’s heart leapt.  Nothing had changed!  He still _wanted_ Ratbag, the Orc could tell -

The realization sent a jolt of pleasure thrilling through him.  That – now _that_ was encouraging.

Ratbag whimpered as he felt a weak pulse of liquid seeping out against his tongue.  Now he could taste himself and it was too soon; he’d barely got started and hadn’t intended – but he knew he wasn’t likely to last long, not with the way that Talion was looking at him.  So he made the best of what little time he had remaining.  Ratbag made sure Talion was watching as he set about sucking, hard, up and down on his stick.  Trembling with effort, the Orc sucked till his cheeks hollowed.  For good measure he used his hand and manipulated the line of links that was set in the underside, fingering them back and forth until they clinked.  Then he looped the tip of his little finger through one of the piercings near the top of his erection and tugged, making it leave his mouth with an obscene-sounding _pop_.  He grinned up at the Ranger, lips slick and wet with a mix of saliva and….and other fluids  – grinned a little lop-sidedly, to be sure, as he tried to give Talion his most winningly filthy, suggestive leer.  Ratbag hid his increasing discomfort and did his best to catch his breath, preparing to regroup. 

Given the nature of what he’d been doing, it came as an undeniable shock to Ratbag when Talion, the moment his mouth was free, leant forwards – suddenly _leapt_ head-first, forwards, onto him.  Straining himself towards Ratbag, he covered the Orc’s mouth with his own and began kissing him; kissing Ratbag deeply, honestly, passionately -

One of the Ranger’s large, firm hands was on his jaw, holding his head in place.  The other went to the small of Ratbag’s back.  He carefully unfolded him, following after as he laid him flat, lying on the floor.

“You’ve made your point,” Talion told him, muttering the words against Ratbag’s skin, “you’ve made your point.”  He went on, speaking between bouts of heated, fervent kisses.  “You’ve nothing to prove.  Nothing at all, and that means you _needn’t_ , Ratbag.  Not on my account.”  His hand went snaking down the front of Ratbag’s body.   Talion bent low over him, and took Ratbag’s erection in his hand and rubbed him, carefully.  “Here” he said, “let me.  I’ll –“ and then, without further explanation, with no further warning or _anything_ he was touching his lips to the end of Ratbag’s stick and kissing gently, favouring the most sensitive part of the Orc’s body with a soft, tentative kiss.  

The sheer unexpectedness of it made Ratbag’s spine jerk him upright in a complete, involuntary reflex until he was sitting with Talion’s head, most incongruously, still more or less in his lap.  He shivered and shook, twisting his claws into the front of Talion’s shirt and gawping at him.  The Ranger had taken him by surprise; he was deeply shocked; too shaken by what Talion had done to even –

Ratbag’s jaw dropped open.  He shut it again, staring at Talion, not trusting himself to speak.  Because the Ranger had _kissed_ Ratbag, kissed him right on the tip of his -

Talion was watching him, a little self-consciously.  “Ratbag?” he began.  “Was that – all right?  ‘Kissing not only on the mouth,’” he said, explaining.  “Don’t you remember?  You asked me about it once, yourself.”

“Yes, Talion.” Ratbag said, blinking back at him.  “Ratbag remembers.” 

The Ranger’s face relaxed.  “Good.  That’s good.” He flashed the Orc a quick, relieved smile, before turning his attention – _downwards_ , towards the lower part of Ratbag’s body, once again.  

This time Ratbag didn’t have to think.  He caught hold of Talion before he had a chance to go any further.

“Please Talion,” he said, speaking urgently.  “ _Please._   Ratbag’s not – he can’t have you do things like that to him.” 

“Ratbag?  Did I do something wrong?  If I hurt you, tell me, and I’ll -

“You didn’t do anything wrong.  You didn’t – you’ve _never_ hurt me.”  The little Orc spoke emphatically, and his voice wavered with intensity.  “What you did, it was –“

Ratbag broke off.  He wanted to, but something was stopping him – _blocking_ him, and he wasn’t able to continue.  He could say it in his head, but somehow the words wouldn’t let themselves be uttered from his mouth; this, in spite of there being all kinds of new and wonderful words he might’ve used to express the way he was feeling.  Instead without forethought, prudence, or planning, all at once the one thing he _could_ still say came spilling out of him:

“You can’t,” he said, “because Ratbag loves – Talion, I _love_ you.” 

Ratbag stopped himself, horrified, choking out an awful, strangled sound in his throat.  He managed to stop but it was already too late, and what he’d said, Ratbag’s terrible, most cherished secret, that he’d had every intention of taking with him to his grave, had been spoken by accident and was hanging in the air between them.  There was now no potential, Ratbag realized, for Talion even to _pretend_ not to know about it – and to the Orc’s utter mortification he felt two quick, hot, tears well up out of nothing.  They leaked from the corners of his eyes and went trickling down the sides of his face.

Talion reached for Ratbag and thumbed the moisture away.  Then, with his hands still framing the Orc’s face, he leant in and kissed Ratbag – kissed him gently, and kindly – over the drying track-marks, once on each cheek.  He tilted Ratbag’s head up to look at him, and he had that soft, fond expression on his face again.  It was the one he sometimes got when he was with Ratbag, and usually, it was a thing the Orc loved to see. 

“ _Ratbag_ ,” Talion said, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d heard.  And if was only a trick of the light that made the Ranger’s eyes look as if they were also glistening wet, then at least his voice sounded more or less normal, and to Ratbag’s relief there was nothing - no amusement, derision or contempt in it that he could hear.

Perhaps that meant he was getting away with it, with saying what he’d said.  Not that it mattered.  He told himself it didn’t matter and yet Ratbag couldn’t bear to have Talion let him down gently, not _just_ then; not when Ratbag’s nerves were jangling and his stick was still (mostly) upstanding and his thoughts were all over the place.

“Oh, Ratbag,” the Ranger repeated.  “Don’t you know by now that I –“

( _Will only ever love my wife_

_Don’t think of you like that_

_Could never,_ ever _look at someone like you in that way_ )

If the Ranger didn’t go as far as to say any of the things he might have, it was only out of kindness to Ratbag, as usual. _Of course_ he was being kind about letting Ratbag down gently and _Ratbag couldn’t bear it._

So he did the only thing he could think of under the circumstances and made an artless lunge for him, fastening his mouth over Talion’s and _staying_ on till the Ranger’s lips slackened and he began to kiss back. 

It was urgent, it was messy, and Ratbag, in his consternation, barely even felt it.

They broke apart, eventually.  “Please Talion,” Ratbag put in quickly, not daring to look at him, “please can we not – _talk_.”

The Ranger was bemused.  “Ratbag?  But you’ve always loved talking.”

That sent a spike of pain skewering through the little Orc’s chest.  It wasn’t only talking, as they both now knew, that Ratbag loved.

“Please, Talion?  Could you just – not?”

Talion hesitated, frowning.  “Of course,” he said.  “Not if you don’t want me to.”

Ratbag smiled back at him, tentative and grateful.  They sat for a moment, staring at each other.

“You know that night we were in that hut,” Ratbag said, to break the awkward silence between them.  “The night when it was raining?”

“That - last night?” 

Ratbag nodded.  “Do you think we could – do like that again, Talion?  You, and me, instead of talking.  I mean – instead?”

“We’ll do whatever you want,” the Ranger replied swiftly.  He put his hand out and stroked Ratbag’s face.  “We can do anything you like.”

Giving him another watery smile, Ratbag lay down and settled on his back.  It was going to be all right.  He thought he could still manage to please Talion.  That was - it was all that he was ever going to have of him; far more than he deserved, so really: nothing had changed.  That, at least, was something he would  be able to hold on to.  And at least the Ranger didn’t seem angry, or overly repulsed by what he’d said.  That meant it was probably going to be all right.  Swallowing down his doubts Ratbag beckoned Talion, inviting him to join him.  

Talion was looking at him, oddly.  “I think - for once - we can do a little better than that,” he said.  He took Ratbag into his arms and got to his feet, lifting him easily off the floor.

“Talion, I can still _walk_ ,” Ratbag told him, thrown by this unexpected development.  “You don’t have to keep carrying Ratbag about everywhere you know.”

“I know you can walk.”  Talion kissed the side of Ratbag’s face.  “But, Ratbag, it’s just I find that I – well, I _like_ carrying you.”

“Ranger?  You do?”

“Oh, Ratbag.  Of course I do.”

Ratbag considered all the carrying of him that Talion had been doing, lately, and what he’d said.  He relaxed against him.  “If you feel like that, Talion….then Ratbag supposes he doesn't mind if you – go ahead.”

So the Ranger carried his Orc into the bedroom.  Talion set Ratbag down and sat beside him.   He placed one of his hands, warm and steady, on Ratbag’s chest and held it there, directly over his heart. With the other he brought Ratbag’s right hand up and kissed it.  Then he interlaced his fingers with Ratbag’s and pressed the Orc’s hand to his face.  

They lay down together on the bed.

 

TBC


	14. Ratbag the Coward awaits your command

 

Talion kicked his boots off and brought his feet up onto the bed.  He put his arm around Ratbag’s shoulders and turned towards the Orc, leaning in to kiss him.

“Talion.”  Ratbag halted him with one hand pressing to his chest.  “Ranger.  Would you – will you tell Ratbag what you want him to do?  ….Give him _orders_ , I mean.”

“Ratbag?”  Talion stared at him.  “You’d like that?”

Ratbag nodded his head, wide eyed.  “Yes, Ranger.  When you do that Ratbag feels, it’s – “ he broke off, shivering.  “It feels _good_ when you tell Ratbag and then he – when he obeys you.”

Talion’s brow creased.  He spent a long moment looking undecided.  “Very well,” he said.

And then he added “….Orc,” in a firm tone, albeit a bit belatedly. 

“All right then – Orc,” Talion instructed, much in the manner of a man preparing himself for an unwarranted challenge, “I suppose you’d better…stand up.  And –“he added, almost as an afterthought, “why don’t you get yourself undressed.”  

He looked on, impassive, as Ratbag clambered to his feet – moving in an awkward, over-hasty stumble -  and stepped out of his breeches.  The Orc faced Talion with his back bowed, cringing a bit, diffidently.

“I suppose that’s a start,” Talion said, “but I want you to take _all_ of it off, Ratbag.”  Gesturing to him he stood up from the bed.  “Turn around and stand with your back to me.”  Once the Orc was facing the wall he clapped hold of both of Ratbag’s shoulders in a sudden movement, making him jump.  “Here.  Hold your hands down by your sides.  I’ll do it.” 

Stepping up very close behind Ratbag he ran his hands down the outside of the Orc’s arms in a slow, leisurely stroke, letting his fingers linger on the pulse-points at the bends of Ratbag’s elbows, kneading and digging in.  He held him steady like that, standing as ever much taller and broader than Ratbag, and for a charged moment allowed Ratbag to appreciate the slightly intimidating, physical fact of him.  By the time Ratbag was quailing and trembling against the Ranger’s chest with longing, desire and yes, also perhaps with some degree of trepidation, Talion had moved on.  He unfastened the leather guard from the Orc’s left wrist and went on with his slow stroking, right down to the end of his fingertips, which he clasped, gently. 

Ratbag couldn’t help himself.  He brought Talion’s hand up to his mouth; began showering kisses down on it.  But Talion wasn’t having any of that.

“Keep your hands by your sides, I said,” he told Ratbag, using a commanding tone that completely bypassed Ratbag’s rational thought processes and sent him to automatically obey.  “And, Orc?  Unless I tell you otherwise, I want you to _stay still_.”  At that Talion hauled Ratbag backwards abruptly, somewhat off his feet.  At the same he stooped his shoulders over Ratbag’s and stood looming over the Orc, pressing the length of his body against him. 

“Stand up straight.  That’s it.  I want you to lean on me.”  With his forearm across Ratbag’s chest and his wrist at his windpipe, he forced him upright.  He held Ratbag in place with what Ratbag considered to be an unnecessarily firm hand, and showed him what he wanted from him.

It occurred to Ratbag that at one point he had thought of himself as being Talion’s plaything.  Now the Ranger treating him like his _puppet_ , more like, and the realization made his stomach turn over.  A pulsing rush of blood quickened his heartbeat and his stick, already upstanding, hiked itself up even straighter.  It nodded up and down against his stomach, throbbing. 

He supposed that would be out of lust.   Or fear.   Or _something_.  

Ratbag began gabbling, scrambling to placate his companion.  “I’ll be still, Talion,” he assured him.  “Ratbag’ll do it.  He _will_.”  Oh, but it was excruciating.  With every moment that passed he knew that was embarrassing himself - humiliating himself - still further, yet at the same time couldn’t get away from the fact that he found the experience more than a little thrilling.

Ratbag didn’t like to think too deeply about what any of that said about him and winced as he heard himself telling it to Talion again: “ _I’ll do what you said, Ranger.  I’ll keep still_.”

“That’s good to know, Orc,” Talion said, and there was an undercurrent of something in his voice that at the same time both aroused and alarmed Ratbag, something he couldn’t easily identify. 

Talion let Ratbag’s wrist-guard drop, and went and did the same thing with the other one.  The leisurely loosening of the fastenings on it, his slow stroking of Ratbag’s hand, the holding, and looming over, and pressing of him in place – he repeated the whole thing. 

This time the Ranger let Ratbag feel the heat and hardness of his own arousal, jutting into Ratbag’s back.

Then, when Ratbag’s knees were feeling weak and rubbery with it, he reached round the front and side of him and set about the buckled gorget and shoulder harness the Orc wore.  He was taking his sweet time to do all of this, and as he worked at the catches, he butted and nuzzled at the back of Ratbag’s head so that his breath, warm and damp, went huffing down the nape of Ratbag’s neck and through his hair.  The sensation, together with the overpowering sense of Talion’s nearness left him giddy and light-headed.  

When he was done Talion let the neck-piece fall to the floor.  He turned Ratbag round to face him, tilted his chin up and gave him a long look, looking him up and down.

“That’s much better,” he said.  “Now, Ratbag.  I want you to get yourself back on that bed.”  

What else could he do?  Ratbag complied.  He sat down and perched, feeling nervous, on the edge of the mattress.

“Lie on your back and stretch out for me.”  Talion came and stood over him in that imposing way of his, in that masterful, yet also daunting stance with which Ratbag, by now, was becoming increasingly familiar.  The Ranger took in the sight of Ratbag spread-eagling himself out into an awkward sprawl.

Ratbag lay there, naked; aroused; self-conscious.  The temptation to bring his knees up, to hide the portion of his body that was pierced, studded, and most vulnerable was almost too much for him to resist - but he _did_ resist.  He could see that Talion was taking his time, looking at him.

“No, Ratbag,” the Ranger commented at length, and that odd cadence was in his voice again, the one that aroused Ratbag almost as much as it alarmed.  “You’re going to have to stretch yourself out a lot further than that.  _Much_ further.”  He was watching Ratbag with an intent, heavy-lidded look, never taking his eyes off of him.

Ratbag could hear himself whimpering.  His hands twisted in the bed-sheets and he arched his body off the bed, straining towards Talion.  The frisson of pleasure he experienced on obeying his companion’s curt instructions was no less than it had been before, and was if anything intensified by Talion’s participation.  Meanwhile the Ranger was looking on and he was appreciative, certainly - but also with a definite element of something in his expression that suggested to Ratbag that his commanding of him was not _entirely_ the chore it might otherwise have been.     

Yes, Ratbag knew his Ranger well enough to be reasonably certain that on some level, Talion was also enjoying this.  That knowledge was very nearly enough to make Ratbag cast aside what little remained of his self-control and simply fling himself at him.  And yet.…Ratbag regarded the Ranger through his eyelashes thoughtfully, having to wonder in spite of himself about the combination of those elements: Talion’s enjoyment, and his control.

Talion sat down beside him.  Ratbag’s stick bobbed up and down as the mattress dipped, and the rings he bore in it sounded together with an absurdly hopeful little _clink._  Talion ignored it.  Reaching over, he pushed his thumb into Ratbag’s mouth and moistened it, swirling it around and over his tongue.  Then, with his fingers holding Ratbag’s chin he dragged it in a slow, warm, sweep over the Orc’s lower lip.  Ratbag made an idiot of himself and went fumbling after the Ranger’s hand, fruitlessly attempting to kiss it.

He could tell that Talion was enjoying seeing him do that, too.

“Now, Ratbag,” he said.  “Stretch your arms back and hold them over your head.”

The Orc’s throat worked in confusion.  He wondered if he might have an inkling of Talion’s intention.  “Ranger?  You mean like how Ratbag did the night he was hurt and you – “

“That’s right, Ratbag,” Talion told him.  “I want to see you as you were that night I made you my own.  On the night I first claimed you.”

“The night when you _claimed_ Ratbag?” Ratbag echoed, staring at him, round-eyed.  Without thinking he found himself hurrying to do as he’d been told, raising his arms and reaching back blindly until his hands hit the slatted wooden rails of the bed-stead. 

Ratbag grabbed hold and hung on gratefully.  Locking his muscles in place he lay there, stretched out stark naked with his meat sticking up hard and in the air.  He was in two minds, now, about what Talion was doing – about what Ratbag had asked him to do, and was beginning to question the wisdom of having voluntarily surrendered himself to the Ranger’s will. 

But, on the _other_ hand – Ratbag’s memory of how Talion had been that night, together with how he was being now, and on top of that, what the Ranger had just said about _claiming_ Ratbag and making him his own –it was all too much for him.  Feeling overwhelmed, he had to close his eyes and thrash from side to side, a bit.  “ _Talion_ ,” he gasped.  “Oh.  _Oh_ -”

At once the Ranger’s hand was gripping his jaw, twisting Ratbag’s head back towards him.  He held him in place there, down at arm’s length.  “Ratbag, I want you to keep your eyes on me,” Talion said.  “ _Don’t_ let me catch you looking away from me again.” 

He absolutely wasn’t play-acting in this, and his tone – as on the first night they’d spent together, the Ranger’s tone was deadly serious.  Ratbag’s eyes flew open and he fixed him with an anxious, imploring look.  “I _promise_ , Talion,” he insisted.  “Don’t be angry!  I promise I -  Ratbag  - he _won’t_.”

Talion’s expression softened.  “I’m not angry.”

Still torn between arousal and apprehension, Ratbag eyed him warily.  “Ranger, if you’re not angry does that mean you - d’you _like_ doing this?”

“I’m not angry.”  Talion bent his head and brushed his lips across the Orc’s mouth, giving him a fleeting, almost-kiss that made Ratbag shiver and squirm and reach for him.  “You’re doing well, Ratbag,” he told him.  “And you look just the way I want you to already.”  The Ranger ran his hand in a slow, kind stroke down Ratbag’s side from his shoulder to his hip.  He did it again, watching intently as Ratbag tried, and failed, to contain his reaction.

Ratbag was beside himself.  He squirmed and thrashed in place some more and weaved his hips, doing his best to get Talion to put his hand on him – on his stick, right _there_ , just, exactly where he wanted him.  He _ached_ for Talion.  He had no shame.  It had been such a long time since he’d been touched like this by anyone – by Talion - 

But the Ranger - that _bastard_ Ranger didn’t do it. 

He just sat beside Ratbag on the mattress, watching him.  Yes, Ratbag thought so, the bastard _did_ like watching –

And _oh_ , how Ratbag loved him –

Then Talion moved across the bed and went up on his knees, one on either side of Ratbag’s midsection, so that he was almost, but still not quite touching Ratbag’s stick. 

Ratbag did his best to buck up onto Talion.  He rolled from side to side and tried to thrust against him but it was no use.  The Ranger had a kind of a…scissoring, _pincer_ hold across him and he couldn’t move enough to obtain so much as a little bit of friction.  Didn’t Talion know?  Well _of course_ he knew, and Ratbag could have wept with frustration because where he was was close, but not _at all_ where Ratbag needed him.

Of course Talion knew what he wanted, and yet he seemed to be having a grand old time denying him it.  He was looking down at Ratbag, watching him, all the while looking mightily – bloody - _entertained_ - 

“Remember, I meant what I said,” he added, leaning in to speak next to the Orc’s face, so close that Ratbag could feel the curve of his mouth against his ear.  The scratch of Talion’s stubble had him yearning towards him, but the Ranger moved up onto his elbows and out of Ratbag’s reach, so that Ratbag’s lips blundered their way through nothing but thin air. 

“I don’t want you looking away from me,” Talion repeated.  “Understood?”

“Ratbag knows, Talion,” Ratbag nodded, breathlessly.  “Ratbag, he  - he’s managed to get that through his thick head, hasn’t he?  He won’t forget.”

“That’s good, Orc.  Good.  Now, you’d better reach up to me and kiss me.”

He didn’t need to tell Ratbag twice.  It was enough to make him abandon all semblance of restraint and he threw himself at the Ranger, hugging him with both arms clasped round Talion’s neck.  He kissed, all over Talion’s lips and lower face, barely managing to make sure his mouth was making contact properly, kissing and licking frantically.  

The Ranger’s arm went under his shoulders, supporting his back, and he cradled the back of Ratbag’s skull.  He felt Talion’s breath on his face, going out of him in a warm, amused exhale.

Talion’s fingers, slow and steady, began massaging the stress and tension from the knotted muscles of Ratbag’s neck.  “Oh Ratbag,” he said, “I’ve missed you.”  He bumped his nose against Ratbag’s crooked, ring-bearing one, looked deep into his eyes, and kissed him.  At last he gave Ratbag a good kiss.  A forthright kiss.  One of his proper, open-mouthed, _devouring_ kisses that told the Orc exactly what Talion had in store for him.  With it, Ratbag felt a spike of desire run all the way through him.

“Talion,” he gasped, “Talion.   _Talion_ , I lov – “  And then he broke off, shocked, panting and cursing himself, having caught himself just on the brink of saying – _it_ – to him _again._

He had to stop saying that.  If this was going to become a recurring feature of their interactions, would have to stop himself from even _thinking_ it forever, from here on in.  Ratbag knew he was in need of some distraction; they were both in need of some distraction, and that a first-rate distraction could come, perhaps, in the physical form of Talion.  That should work!  But his hands weren’t steady and he fumbled with the buttons at the front of his companion’s shirt, making a real hash of things until Talion had to help him.  Then he made short work of it.  The fabric fell open, allowing Ratbag a good eyeful of Talion’s broad, white-skinned chest. 

Ratbag sighed happily.  _There_ he was again; Talion, his Ranger, and once more everything was right with the world – or rather it was going to be, for the next few minutes at least.  The Orc laid both his hands on his companion, going careful, as ever, because – his claws, and stroked across his collarbones, the base of his neck, his chest, with all the tender care and gentleness he had in him.  The first touch of his hands had Talion closing his eyes and shivering.  And perhaps the Ranger had done a good job, a minute or two ago, with his posturing and commanding because Ratbag had asked it of him, but wasn’t the truth closer to being that Talion was as lonesome, and friendless, and desperately in need of a little kindness and consolation as Ratbag was himself?  And the poor, hard up bastard _must’ve_ been desperate, because just now he was obviously so grateful for and appreciating not very much at all from Ratbag, really.  The thought of it made some fierce, sharp and unfamiliar emotion twist inside him, directed not at but on behalf of Talion and the miserable circumstances that had brought the Ranger to this point, circumstances that Ratbag himself was a part of: the ugly situation that Talion found himself in. 

For a moment Ratbag wished he had more to offer his Ranger, wished he had more than the Orcish ugliness that marked him inside and out, and for something better than sharp teeth and claws and his dirty, yellow skin.   

It was only for a moment.  A moment, and then Talion made things better, as he always did.  The Ranger didn’t care!  He didn’t mind.  He _liked_ Ratbag.  Liked looking at him; or he did sometimes, at least.  Wasn’t that what just been doing: liking looking, at him?  And he seemed to enjoy kissing Ratbag, because there was no-one making him do it, and yet he _had_ started doing just that: he was kissing him.

Their kiss was soft and slow, and it went on for a long time.  When it was over Talion looked down at him.  He stroked Ratbag’s face, and then he said: “what makes you look like that, Orc?”

Ratbag avoided his gaze. “Like what, Ranger?”

“Sometimes when we’re with each other you look so unhappy,” Talion told him, gently.  “Sometimes.  It’s never for long but am I _making_ you unhappy, Ratbag?  I don’t mean to if I do.  And I wondered what it is you think about when you look like that.”

Ratbag clasped his hand tight and kissed it fervently.  “I’m not unhappy.  Not about you, Ranger.   _Never_ you.  You’re the only one who makes me – who’s _ever_ made Ratbag –“ and he stopped short, unable to continue.

“Then is it – is it all the rest of it?”

“Yes,” Ratbag nodded, “that’s it.  It’s just _circumstances_ , and all that, is’nit?”

Ratbag paused and took stock of his surroundings.

The bed they were lying on was delightfully comfortable and soft.  There was a patch of sunlight shining onto the clean wooden boards of the floor and a brisk, late-morning breeze was at that moment gusting in through the open bedroom window, making the light curtains that were drawn across it fan out and snap and billow.  The breeze brought with it the calls of distant seabirds and filled the room with the fresh smell of the sea, and of the wild green herbs, grass and thyme that grew among the rocks out on the tumbling cliff. 

Ratbag found himself thinking forcefully, then, about the way it had been for them in Mordor: him and Talion perpetually hiding together in fear and darkness and having no other possible choice.  The times in the past when they’d been with each other it had been on burned and smoking battlefields.  They’d stolen intimate moments together in amongst the rubble, or in the ruins of fallen buildings, where they were barely able to keep themselves free from being mired in the mud and the dirt.  On one occasion they’d touched, and afterwards held and comforted each other, screened by a stand of waterlogged trees in a dying wood.  The sun had gone down in a glaring, blood-coloured sunset and for a long time after they’d stood there, neither of them wanting, or willing, to move.  Both of them forever filthy and soot-stained, soaked to the skin with ash-saturated rainwater; Talion, with the muck clumped in his eyelashes, clotted to the roots of his hair, coated all over with black Orcs’ blood.

The Ranger and Orc looked each other in the eye for a long moment.  Clearly they were both thinking of and remembering the exact the same things. 

“I don’t mean _these_ circumstances,” Ratbag said, and cleared his throat.  “Not the circumstances you and me are in right this minute.  That’s not what Ratbag’s talking about, is he?”

“I thought not, Ratbag,” Talion said, mildly.  “I understand what you mean.”

“Yeah.  I know you do.  That’s because it’s….. _nice_ here, _obviously_.  Being here.  I mean - wiv’ you.”

“I feel the same way too,” Talion told him.  He smiled a little, and ran his fingers through Ratbag’s hair.  “Obviously.”  Now he was regarding him with that intently-focussed, earnest look on his face again, the same one as he’d get when he’d say those things to Ratbag, things like ‘ _you’re my Orc,_ ’ or ‘ _when_ _I_ _claimed you’_ and -

‘ _Yours_.’

The Orc fidgeted.  He was well past, was already far beyond his usual realm of understanding and, aside from the fact that it concerned something intense, and heart-felt, and honest, wouldn’t like to have said _what_ was currently passing between them.  He simply wasn’t equipped to comprehend it.  Ratbag was aware, however, that once again, as with his unfortunate declaration in the aftermath of his ‘party trick,’ his interaction with Talion seemed in danger of veering hopelessly off-track. 

Yes, the Ranger was looking intense – but then Talion always did look _a bit_ intense, and from the way he was holding himself, braced upright over Ratbag and with a certain awkward, overwrought quality in his bearing, Ratbag would’ve been willing to bet that he was definitely in the throes of also feeling – something else.  The Orc shifted his thigh between Talion’s legs and moved it up against him, so it was pressing full-length against his taut, upstanding erection.  Oh yes!  _There_ he was again, all right.  Talion was looking intense, but at the same time was also intensely aroused.  He exclaimed out loud, caught himself and faltered, by now looking almost as confused and bewildered as Ratbag was himself. 

Ratbag supposed that they were caught in a state between emotion and physicality, if you wanted to be all technical about it.  Either way that didn’t matter.  It was as he had suspected.  Talion’s reaction told him exactly how easy it would be for him to right the course they were on.

Ratbag traced the points of his claws along the line of the invisible scar that ran across Talion’s throat, and then as Talion shivered and pressed himself to him, kissed his way across and under Talion’s jawline, following the same, slow path he’d made with his fingers all the way from one side to the other.  The Orc had to marvel a little, then, not just at how much Talion enjoyed being touched there, but also at how much pleasure it also brought him, Ratbag, to do it.   

So he went on kissing Talion some more, with Talion still shuddering and catching his breath and clutching him.

“Ranger?” Ratbag said, eventually, “Ranger.  Ratbag was thinking - I was thinking maybe it’s about time you got undressed, yourself.”

Talion was very quick to comply.  Then, as he was struggling to get himself out of his shirt at the same time as he was keeping one of his arms around, holding Ratbag, Ratbag helped Talion loosen the fastenings at the waistband of his breeches.

“Oh Ratbag,” Talion muttered, as Ratbag slipped his fingers in under his clothes, “ _Ratbag._ ”  His breath hitched as the Orc ran his hands over his flanks; across the taut muscles of his stomach - and when he moved lower, to the inside of his thighs and then those parts of his body that hung between, he groaned.  “Be kind, Ratbag.”  There was a pleading note in the Ranger’s voice, something Ratbag couldn’t think of ever having heard from him before, but he liked it.  The Orc decided that he liked it very much indeed.

“Go slow, Ratbag,” Talion began telling him, “you’re going to have to - bear with me for a moment, if you can.”  But it was too late; the Orc had already taken hold of him.  Talion choked out a strangled sound and stopped short, braced on his elbows and knees where he was on top him.  “Ratbag!  Slow down!  That’s – “ he qualified himself, hurriedly, “it isn’t an order.”  The colour rose to his cheeks in a heated flush as he went on speaking.  “It’s just I _haven’t_ , for a long time, Ratbag, and I don’t want this to be over before I’ve had a chance to let you know how I  – “

Ratbag blinked up at him, giving him a quizzical look.  The scent of Talion was in his nostrils.  The Ranger’s head was bowed and his hair had fallen forwards so that the ragged ends hung down and were tickling Ratbag’s face.  The Orc could still taste him; still feel the scratch of his stubble on his lips – and he had the blood-stiffened length of him, flesh firm and straining, terribly diverting, right there in his hand.  There was a lot for Ratbag to contend with, so perhaps it was all _that_ that was distracting him.  He licked at his lips foolishly, and asked - “Ranger?  What is it?  What do you want to let Ratbag know?”

“You don’t want me to say it, so I have to find another way to tell you,” Talion replied.  “I had the idea I might be able to show you, but that’s -” he dropped his forehead so it was resting against Ratbag’s.  There was a note of sincere apology in his voice when he told him: “I don’t think there’s much chance of that happening now.”

But he’d already lost Ratbag, who wouldn’t liked to have guessed _what_ he was rabbiting on about.  “That’s all right Ranger,” he said.  “We’ve got time, haven’t we?  Whatever it is can keep.  It’ll wait.”

“’There’s time’?” Talion repeated, staring at him.  “’We can wait?’”  He sounded beside himself; was very nearly desperate.  “But that’s the problem, Ratbag.  You’ve made me so – that I don’t think I _can_.”

“It’s all right, Ranger.”  Ratbag clasped the back of Talion’s neck and held him there for a moment.  He couldn’t have said with any degree of confidence what he intended with the gesture; that he wanted to express affection, or camaraderie: either one or maybe something deeper; he only knew from his own perspective how good it felt when the Ranger, as he sometimes would, would do that to him.  And if it was odd, for once, to be the one hushing – to be comforting – Talion, the Orc was finding that he very much liked that, too. 

“Then just let me,” he suggested.  “Ratbag’s…. _good_ at this Talion, he’s – “

_(Used to this.  Already knows it’s the only thing he’s good for -)_

The Orc broke off.  But then, thinking _actions_ _speak_ _louder and suchlike_ , he took Talion’s erection in both his hands and for a moment let himself simply - have at him.  On his feet, Ratbag’s balance was still a little creaky, but on his back he could wriggle like a fish.  He wriggled like that now, bumping his hips and nudging his own miserable, ring-studded erection up and onto Talion’s cock and balls and stomach. 

“If you can’t wait,” he told Talion, “then don’t.  You should let Ratbag take care of you.”  He stretched up to Talion again and kissed him.

Maybe it was the kiss itself.  Maybe it was that in combination with the rest of it.  Whatever it was, that seemed to do the trick, because then, with their mouths if not still joined exactly, but still pressing and clashing frantically together at least and without another word the Ranger spent a moment _having at_ Ratbag in return.  His weight pressed the Orc down, very gratifyingly, into the mattress.  Ratbag wrapped his legs around, holding on, as Talion moved and rubbed and shoved himself against him.  He revelled in it, in the nearness of Talion and in the sense of controlled strength and power he could feel in his movements as he bore down on top of him; the sensation of profound physical pleasure that he and his companion were sharing between them.  

It wasn’t long before Ratbag was close.  They were both close, but Talion stopped short.

He tilted Ratbag’s face upwards to make him look at him.  Talion’s voice was shaking as he told him: “you’re my Orc, Ratbag.  Aren’t you.”

He was only repeating what Ratbag had once said to him, wasn’t he?  Even as the realization sent a warm flush of emotion spreading through him, Ratbag couldn’t help but also notice that his Ranger didn’t half seem to like talking, around the time he was about to come.  That was all right.  Ratbag was the same way because he liked talking too.  And he liked to hear Talion.

Loved hearing him, actually.

“You’re _my_ Orc,” Talion repeated, “now tell me – tell me what you think that means.”

That brought Ratbag up short.  If it was a test, he knew he couldn’t afford to not get his answer right.  “It means….I do what you say?” he suggested, tentatively.  “It means that Ratbag follows you.  That he has to obey, he – _wants_ to obey you.  And he does all of that, all of the time.”  Ratbag regarded the Ranger with a hopeful look  “Is that what it means?”

Talion was shaking his head.  “That’s not right.  That isn’t it at all.”

“Then it means –“ Ratbag broke off, as his stomach swooped with fear.  He knew well enough, in questions of ownership what was expected of him; in such a situation, exactly what his erstwhile master would’ve wanted to hear.  But it _wasn’t_ the same and he trusted Talion.  He trusted Talion enough to know that the Ranger would _never_ –

That Talion _probably_ wouldn’t –

He knew what to say, and knew he could say it but Ratbag had to close his eyes and drop his voice to a whisper before he did so, all the same.  “It means you can do anything you want wiv’ me,” he told Talion.  “It means there’s nothing Ratbag can do about it -”   

“Ratbag?  _No_!”

“-  but it’s all right,” the Orc continued, his voice rising, as slowly it began to dawn on him that, because this was Talion, somehow, astonishingly, it really _was_ all right.  He opened his eyes, and looked the Ranger straight in the eye.  “It’s all right because Ratbag _wants_ to belong to you.  He’s your Orc, and that means he doesn’t  – _I_ don’t mind. 

Talion made a helpless, exasperated noise, but then he lowered his head and kissed him.  It was a good kiss.  A firm kiss.  Decisive.  “You’re right Ratbag” he said.  “We belong to each other.  You know we do.  But that’s not what I was thinking of, Ratbag.  Not _at all._ ”

“It wasn’t?”  

Talion’s voice trembled with emotion as he told him - “you’re my Orc and that means I take care of you.  I look after you.  Provide for you - _protect_ you.  _That’s_ what it means.  And I’m happy to do those things – I _want_ to do them because I – because of how I’ve come to - ”

“What, Ranger?” Ratbag honestly wanted to know.

“Oh, _Ratbag_!” Talion groaned.  “Can’t you tell?  Don’t you _know_?”

But Ratbag _didn’t_ know.  And then he cast his thoughts back over all the things that Talion had done, and what he’d said: about searching for him after his battle with the Tower; telling him he’d planted flowers - that he’d buried Ratbag’s armour.  And he thought of the Ranger finding Ratbag, fetching him back across the sea, and about how, ever since then, he’d spent almost all of his time carrying and caring for and cooking meals for him.

Talion, holding him close at night.  Talking to Ratbag; healing his shoulder and covering him with his blanket even in their early days, back at the beginning.  The way he’d put his arms round Ratbag.  Talion leaning in and kissing him.  What would make him do all of that?  Why would he have done _any_ of it if he didn’t –

At first the Orc couldn’t have said because he really didn’t know.  But then wonderfully, as with a flash of inspiration it came to him, and Ratbag realized that all along the answer had been obvious.  Perhaps he hadn’t known before but now, at last, he did.

“Talion,” he said wonderingly, “ _Talion_.  You feel the same way I do.”

“ _Yes_ Ratbag.”  Desire and passion and – at long last, a measure of happiness were clear to see, written all across his face .  “ _That’s_ what I wanted to tell you.”

Ratbag’s spirits soared.  His heart felt light as air.  “But Ranger,” he said.  “I think that’s what you just did.”

 

 

TBC


	15. Back to the Black Gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely owe a ideas credit to MaLady's excellent and highly recommended story 'Somehow this is Ratbag's fault' for the incidence of neck-biting in this chapter. Apologies for ripping it off, but imitation, as they say...and on top of that, I really liked it.

 

They lay together afterwards, with the warm breeze still blowing through the open window and the rush and furl as it made the curtains billow casting patterns of shifting sunlight onto the clean-swept bedroom floor.

Ratbag was lying with his head on Talion’s shoulder, so close that he could feel and hear the slow thump of the Ranger’s heartbeat underneath him.

The little Orc was thinking.

One of the things he was thinking was that it was pitiful, really, how little effort it had taken to finish him.  The Ranger had told Ratbag how he felt about him and then, not long afterwards he’d come, quickly and directly with a minimum effort on Ratbag’s part, and it was just as he’d thought.  Poor Talion really _must’ve_ been a hard-up bastard, mustn’t he.

The daft, affectionate, bugger interlaced his fingers with Ratbag’s own and held on to them tightly, all through his climax.  And he’d kept his hold after; Talion still had hold of his hand, in fact.

Ratbag lay with his face on the Ranger’s chest, so that his head went up and down with the gentle rise and fall of Talion’s breathing.  He was still thinking.  Another of the things he was thinking was that being with Talion wasn’t like anything in his previous realm of experience; but then, why should it be?  Talion wasn’t the least bit like anyone, or anything he’d ever encountered before. 

The secret wish for shame, for failure to fall upon a comrade and break him; to take pleasure from another’s misfortune and glory in his misery: those were the sordid emotions shared by all Orcs, with which every one of them was all too intimately familiar.  

None of that, however, applied when it came to Talion.  There was nothing spiteful, cowardly or craven whatever in Ratbag’s attitude or reaction there.  The Orc felt fiercely protective of him.  Startlingly protective; so much so that if it wasn’t for the depth of his devotion to the Ranger and Ratbag’s whole-hearted certitude in the rightness of the bond they had between them, it would have come close to frightening him.  And as he lay there, thinking, the realization came to him that he wanted only the best for Talion - and that that meant much better than him, Ratbag, and all of Mordor, and the enduring pain of Talion’s benighted existence.  His Ranger deserved far more, and so much better than all of - _this_. 

These were unfamiliar emotions, alien to the Orc as they were indisputable and he was at a loss as to know what he could possibly do to help secure a better fate for his companion.  That was what Ratbag wanted however; in that moment _all_ he wanted: nothing but the best for him.  He found the thought a little overwhelming.

After they’d finished speaking, there’d been some open-mouthed kissing – there’d been _a lot_ of open-mouthed kissing – after which Ratbag had had Talion roll over on his back.  Another quick kiss and a few licks to the end of his pole, some twists of the wrist – and that was it, he was done.  This time Talion let the Orc see his pleasure and to hear him, all the way through.  That was new.  Before, there’d ever been a degree of reserve in the Ranger’s bearing, however slight; a certain sense that he was holding something in restraint.  This time he’d been candid and open and almost painfully honest.  He’d shared himself with Ratbag through the whole thing and done it willingly.  The Orc’s heart lurched, turning over a little in his chest at the thought.

And afterwards in turn Talion – at last, because Ratbag had been waiting for such a very long time, for this  – at long last he’d started reciprocating.  He ran his fingers up and down on Ratbag’s stick and did the things he sometimes liked to do with the rings set in him; twisting them, rubbing around and across and all over the places he was pierced and studded with light touches, very gently; and he’d watched Ratbag’s reaction with a fixed and alarming intensity as the Orc moaned and sighed and very nearly spilled into his hand for him. 

Then, with Ratbag still in his hand and right on the brink he put his lips to the base of Ratbag’s throat and sucked a prolonged, aching kiss onto him.  Still not letting go of him Talion closed his teeth round a mouthful of the skin and muscle there and bit down on it, as hard as he could without breaking the skin.  He held on with a firm yet measured grip, and his breath felt warm and damp against the Orc’s neck.  Ratbag could feel the blunt edges of the Ranger’s teeth clamping tight against him.

He couldn’t’ve realized.  There was no reason for Talion to have known about it.  With his talk of the two of them ‘belonging’ he’d established it already, with words, in the way Men liked to do.  But with a bite on the neck like this he was _also_ staking his claim upon Ratbag in time-honoured Orcish fashion, and if it wasn’t a thing that any male Orc ordinarily, would willingly have tolerated from another, Ratbag in this regard at least counted himself no ordinary Orc.  The underlying emotion as much as the physical sensations undid him; he’d been completely overcome.  There was nothing for Ratbag but Talion’s mouth on his neck and his hand on his stick.  His senses whiting out and with a cry of pleasure Ratbag spilled himself directly, into the Ranger’s hand and all over his stomach.

It didn’t occur to Ratbag until some time afterwards that Talion was a mind reader.  He’d had ample opportunities and read Ratbag’s mind repeatedly, hadn’t he?  The Ranger knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

 _Of course_ he knew.

When Ratbag came down from it, and back to himself a little, Talion was still watching him.   Streaks of Ratbag’s - _stuff_ \- that’d just come spurting out so pleasurably were lying alongside some of Talion’s, both of their releases wet and already beginning to blend together on the muscles of the Ranger’s stomach.  Without thinking  - and   Ratbag wasn’t thinking about anything at all because at that moment he was beyond thinking - without thinking Ratbag reached for Talion’s hand and used it to mix both sets of their stuff all together more thoroughly.  He spread it _very_ thoroughly onto Talion’s belly.  Really took his time about it.  They watched each other for a long moment without speaking.

 _There._   Till it was done the Orc didn’t take his eyes off him.

The Ranger’s eyes were open wide.  “Oh, _Ratbag_ ,” he groaned.

Ratbag knew he wanted him do it.  Talion would never ask, much less demand it of him – which he could’ve, if he’d wanted, but Ratbag knew he wouldn’t.  Still, Talion would have liked to see Ratbag doing it.  He could tell.

So he brought Talion’s hand up to his mouth and set about licking it clean for him. 

He didn’t get far with it at all, because the act of him simply showing willing seemed to be more than enough for Talion.  The Ranger had only just had time to get that familiar look he’d get, with open-eyed incredulity and desire flashing across his face before he was sitting up beside Ratbag and moving straight in to kiss him.  Then he was kissing Ratbag - passionately kissing himself _off_ of Ratbag, and not even minding the taste of him.

On the contrary: the taste - or maybe it was just the thought of what Ratbag had been doing seemed to do things to him.

Oh yes.  His Ranger was a hard-up bastard, all right.  And he mightn’t have lasted for long just a little while ago but by crikey if he wasn’t soon up and ready to go _again_. 

Ratbag wouldn’t for a moment have thought that he could do it; coming again so shortly after he experienced a climax as intense as the one Talion just brought him to.  He was wrong about that however.  For the rest of the morning they stayed in the bed and cared for and loved each other.  They worked up to their next orgasms together, sitting up in the bed, each taking the other in hand and coaxing his partner into it.

Looking back on it, that morning he spent with Talion following his accidental declaration was the happiest Ratbag had ever been.  Over the scant handful of days they had left to spend together after it, the physical side of their interaction was enhanced as well as renewed.  And, with every day that passed it strengthened and at the same time deepened the mutual regard they had for each another.   

***

One morning they’d risen early, pleasured one another, and afterwards Ratbag and Talion had dozed together on into the forenoon. Waking hours later, Ratbag found himself alone in the bed.  But Talion wasn’t far off.  Ratbag could see him in the next room, looking out of the open window, with one hand clasping the wooden frame.  As Ratbag approached he let go of it with a hasty movement, being uncharacteristically awkward.  He put both hands behind his back and turned to face him.

“You like it here Ratbag,” he began, “don’t you?”  Something in the Ranger’s tone suggested that try as he might to hide it, he was attaching an undue amount of importance to Ratbag’s answer.

“Yes?” the Orc replied, guardedly.

“I thought so,” Talion said.  “After all you’ve more or less told me as much, already.  And so I wondered,” he continued, “what I was wondering, Ratbag, is what you might think of staying on in this house, afterwards.” 

Ratbag met his gaze.  The look Talion was giving him was, as ever, steady and earnest; tinged with  concern and full of affection.  Ratbag was a realist: of course he’d known it was inevitable.  They were always going to have had to talk about it, sooner or later.  “You’re talking about after you’ve gone.”

They both knew in a matter of days - that soon Talion would be leaving, rushing headlong towards vengeance and his final death.  And yet, Ratbag realized, Talion was still set on protecting Ratbag.  Providing for Ratbag; even now, holding him uppermost in his thoughts, caring for and – here his heart gave an odd flip-flop in his chest _loving_ \- him.  There was no reason at all for Ratbag to begin to feel surprised about it.  The Ranger had stated his intentions, and now he was intent on seeing it through.  He was only doing all of the things he’d said he would, wasn’t he?  To the letter.

“Lithariel and I have already discussed it.  The Queen says – Queen Marwen doesn’t object.  You’d have everything you need and you could stay here.  It’s far enough from Mordor.  You could stay on and live as one of her subjects.”

“So I’d stay here - but without you.”

Talion sounded unspeakably sad when he told him - “please believe me Ratbag, if I had a choice -“

The Orc cut him off short, appalled by his evident line of thinking.  “Glow-in-Dark-Head’s never going to stand for it.  You and me both know that.  And,” he continued, tone rising in agitation because of the two of them, why should it have to fall to _Ratbag_ to be the one to keep his head about this thing, “there _isn’t_ a choice because Ratbag would _never_ ask that of you.  You don’t belong in Mordor, Talion.  Don’t forget there’s stuff that you need, too.”

“If you wanted to know you could ask me.  What my choice would be if I were free.  I’d tell you.”

Ratbag shook his head.  “Ratbag’s an Orc,” he stated flatly.  “That means there never was a proper choice.”

Talion put his arms around Ratbag and drew him close.  “So, Ratbag.  Will you stay?  Will you consider it, at least?”

Ratbag smiled up at him.  He didn’t want to have to lie to him about it, but trying to put the Ranger’s mind at rest seemed the very least that he could do.  “Yes, Talion.  Ratbag’ll think about it.”

The Ranger beamed back, looking relieved.  Even that little seemed more than he had dared to hope.  “Good, Ratbag,” he told him, “I’m very glad to hear that.  That’s good.”

***

The weather changed at sunset, when they were walking on the cliff.  The breeze that had been blowing earlier in the day died down and a low-lying cloud-blank drew in from the east, turning the Núrnen’s sometime-sparkling waters the flat dull colour of wet slate.  There was rain, off on the horizon and as the sun went down behind the mountains it broke through the clouds and hung as a dazzling orange segment, half-way obscured beyond the shoulder of the hill.  For a long, extended moment its last rays burned flat across the landscape, painting everything with light in a searing molten colour that had the fiery intensity of liquid gold.  The sun dipped further and the dazzling brightness was extinguished, quick and abrupt as a candle-flame snuffed out.

There had been an ominous quality to the light-show and its cut-short conclusion, Ratbag thought.  It spoke to him of nothing but…portents, and fell portents at that.  A chill ran through him and raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

Ratbag turned towards his companion.  Talion was watching something approaching, something that came leaping up the wide green swathe of grassy cliff, that was charging at them through the encroaching gloom.  The rolling, bounding gait and its front-heavy, ridge-backed shape were unmistakeable.  This thing was - it was a -

“Caragor!”  Ratbag cried, plunged at once into panic.  “Talion!  Caragor - arrgh!”

They looked like cats in much the same way that Wargs had something of them in the way of wolves, or that an impartial observer might consider Orcs to resemble Elves, maybe.  The remnants of any common ancestry they might have shared with their counterparts from a more gentle world were vestigial, if any.  The air and eldritch vapours of Mordor; its inhospitable landscape.  The queer quality to the sunlight, that blazed with such a strange relentless, dark yet scorching intensity there - or the Dark Lord’s malice.  Any, or all of them working in concert had worked to shape the beasts and Orcs of Mordor towards a commonality of form and shared, malicious intent.   The outcome on the end-stock was the same in all three cases: creatures that were outsized; ugly; barrel-chested.  Scaled, or clawed and armoured.  Vicious in nature, and all of them with a single-minded, murderous bent. 

The beast was on them in an instant.  As it ran at them it made a succession of odd, skipping-sideway paces with its feet so that its massive forepaws, wide across as dinner-plates, scuffed down one after the other on the turf in a light, almost playful rhythm.  

 _Thup-tup._ The Caragor skipped, and surged forwards.  Its head went back and the mouth opened wide as it uttered a hideous, near-silent, wheezing roar.  Only the uppermost notes of its call fell within the range of human hearing but the terrifying infrasonic vibrations from the much louder, hidden part of it went straight and turned to water Ratbag’s gut.  Shaking its head the Caragor pranced and side-stepped.  The front feet came down again.  _Thup-tup._

Well _of course_ it was skipping with joy and feeling playful.  They were easy prey and this Caragor was cheerfully, obviously about to _eat_ them.

Ratbag didn’t think.  He didn’t stop to think that one Orc alone couldn’t possibly have wrangled it, or about his lack of a weapon, and armour, or his infirmity.  He didn’t even stop to think, assuming everything Talion has told him about his near un-killable status was true, that his companion, following a fatal disembowelment, would be likely to revive somewhere, somehow, _eventually_.  With an impulsiveness and complete lack of cowardice that later, looking back on the episode shook Ratbag to his core because it was for the _second_ time now that this appalling thing had happened, he found himself running forwards, intent on buying a little extra time for Talion; trying to buy the Ranger any time at all by putting himself between Talion and - _it_.  

Before Ratbag had a chance to consider the very likely lethal ramifications of what he’d done the Caragor leapt straight past him.  Moving with frightening speed it homed in on Talion and went circling round behind him.  It stopped suddenly.  Sidling closer the Caragor shoved the bulk of its massive, armour-plated body against Talion, almost knocking the Ranger sideways.  Then did its best to begin weaving itself affectionately around his feet.

The scale was horribly, horrifyingly wrong.  Shoulder to shoulder this Caragor stood almost as tall as Talion did.

The Caragor insinuated it’s scaly, spiked and armoured head in under Talion’s arm, and went butting at his hand and nuzzling.  He scratched it briefly behind one of its hairless ears - before swinging himself up and onto its back. 

Ratbag’s knees shook.  He felt an odd sort of detachment as perused the scene being played out in front of him, yet at the same time found he was relieved to see Talion positioning himself carefully,

(one leg gripping either side, right on top of the Caragor’s _back_ )

\- he watched Talion seating himself very carefully behind the last of the upward-pointing spikes the Caragor bore along its spine as protection for its neck and backbone.  A Man could do himself some serious mischief, Ratbag thought, vaguely, if he was to catch himself on something dangerous sharp and pointed like that.

Realization struck.  Ratbag’s legs gave way and he sat down heavily in the grass.  “ _Talion_ ,” he said.  “That Caragor, it’s - you’ve _branded_ it.” 

Just like his Orcs.  Orcs were one thing: up to a point all Orcs were programmed to be predisposed to the likes of mind-control and brain-washing.  But this was a Caragor, a wild, ferocious denizen of Mordor and even this animal did Talion’s bidding now, because he’d only gone and _branded_ it.

“Yes, I branded it,” Talion said.  He was watching the Orc’s reaction carefully.  “Ratbag, you’re not….upset, are you, that I did that?”

Ratbag shook his head, beyond words because words, for once, had failed him..  At least neither of them had been disembowelled by the Caragor, he thought.  They hadn’t been eaten by it, either.  He _supposed_ that made it win-win.  But Caragors were beasts that lived in desolate, rocky country.  They were sturdy ambush-predators that preyed on Orcs for preference.  Caragors avoided established human settlements, because they lacked the stamina and strength in numbers that would allow them much ingress when faced with any form of co-ordinated defence.  There was no way such a creature should’ve found itself walking in the open out on a cliff-top in Núrn. 

It just _shouldn’t_. 

“Why’s it come here, Talion?”

The Ranger was quiet for a moment.  “I think this must be the Elf-Lord’s way of telling me our time is almost up.  This Caragor’s the way I’ll be travelling back to make contact with our troops.”

 _Ah,_ Ratbag thought _._   “Is it?” he nodded.  “Ratbag thought so.”

Talion dismounted, jumping down beside Ratbag.  His Caragor followed close behind him.  The Ranger took Ratbag by the arm and helped him to his feet.  “Come and see her,” he said, smiling warmly between them.  “Why don’t you come and say hello.”

Ratbag eyed the beast with some trepidation.  It mightn’t have been the largest Caragor he’d ever seen, but even without the bars of a cage between them this was certainly the closest he had ever been to one.

Or rather, the closest he’d been to a Caragor whilst not being actively attacked by it.  That had happened in the past; him being thrown to the Caragors by his fellow Orcs had at one point been in danger of becoming quite the regular occurrence _._   He had had some previous experience with these animals and hence every reason to be frightened.  Ratbag hung back from it.

“Not like that.”  Grasping Ratbag by the hand, Talion took it and thrust it right under the Caragor’s nose.  Ratbag could see the huge animal’s nostrils flaring open and wrinkling as it sniffed and sniffed.  “Let her get a chance to know you,” Talion said.  “Now she’ll remember you next time.  They remember, you know.”

“Hnh.  Do they.”  As an Orc who thought he knew as much as he ever wanted to know about Caragors, Ratbag was not all convinced.

Talion’s Caragor lost all interest in him abruptly and turned its head away. 

“Here,” Talion said.  “I think she wants you to -“ he took hold of Ratbag’s hand again and moved it to scratch and stroke behind the Caragor’s ears.  The animal’s skin was nearly hairless but was much warmer than he’d thought it would be, and on that part of its body at least had a smooth, short, almost velvet-like nap.  

To Ratbag’s surprise it felt pleasant, more than anything, to be fussing over her in this manner. 

“Use your knuckles,” Talion was advising, “and better try and keep in between the spikes.”  Under his breath the Ranger muttered something to the Caragor then he repeated it, approvingly: “that’s good.”

An Orc might refer to ‘the big Caragor’ or ‘the three-legged Caragor’ or ‘the one with the broken tooth’ - but he’d never go so far as to try and get all close and personal with it.  And yet Ratbag was fairly certain that he’d just heard -

“Talion,” he asked his companion, “have you named it?”

The Ranger evaded the question.  He looked at the ground and up in the air and shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.

“ _What_ have you named it?”

Talion didn’t answer straight away. 

Ratbag waited. 

“I’ve called her - I call her ‘Buttercup’.”

“…Buttercup.” 

Their gazes met.  “It doesn’t make any difference, Ratbag.  I don’t think she knows it’s her name.”

“So is that because she’s got yellow -“

“No!” Talion exclaimed.  He put his hand on Ratbag’s shoulder and clasped him firmly there before continuing.  “It was a while after my fight with the Hammer, and I thought I’d - lost you.  One evening I was in a meadow, on the bank of a river when she attacked me.  She was thin.  Couldn’t hunt properly.  She’d been injured, you see.   An Orc must have struck her with his arrows, but not seen the thing through.” 

“Buttercup!” he called the Caragor, which had moved off and was nosing in amongst the clumps of sea-thrift on the edge of the cliff.  Buttercup turned at once and padded on silent feet towards them, a hulking shape in the greying dusk.  Talion showed Ratbag the patches of puckered scar-tissue that spotted the Caragor’s flanks and rump.  “See?  And I didn’t have the heart to finish her either, so I branded her instead.  I didn’t know what would happen, but what happened surprised me.”  He stood silent for a moment.

“What did happen?”

“Before I branded her she was ferocious - snarling - desperate to kill me.  As soon as the brand took she went bounding off along the riverbank.  Gambolling.  Wanting me to play.  She galloped the whole length of the long mead then came back to me again.  I watched her running up and down through a field filled with buttercups in the evening sunlight.  Everything was - golden, and the thought came to me that this was first creature I’d met that hadn’t been trying to kill me in such a long time.  She was chasing dragonflies and she looked so- joyful, Ratbag, with the flowers all around.  How she’d been with me before, and then after.  It wasn’t anything like what I’d thought to expect from someone -  I mean, from an animal like that.  I felt so privileged, in a way, to have been able to be there and see that.  And, I suppose it might’ve also put me in mind of  - of something else.”  He broke off.

Ratbag had been caught up in the story, but then of course he always did love to hear it when his Ranger talked.  “What did it put you in mind of, Talion?” he asked eagerly.

Talion looked very sad and only shook his head.  Then he stood quietly with Ratbag for a moment, the two of them waiting there together on the clifftop in the gloom.  But at length the Ranger rallied.  He called his Caragor and helped Ratbag up to sit astride in front of him.  The Orc was much higher off the ground than he’d have liked to be, but Talion’s arms were warm around him and his chest was solid against Ratbag’s back.  He was aware of an unnerving sense of power in the Caragor’s muscles as they began to flex and bunch beneath him but then she was surging forward, the wind of their passing was in his hair and it felt - intoxicating.  Ratbag yelped out in pleasure and surprise because of the sheer exhilaration of the thing and all the while he could sense more than see his Ranger smiling fondly though the gathering dark, close to him.

“Buttercup,” Talion said.  The beast broke into an easy canter, bearing them both effortlessly across the hill.  “Buttercup.  Home.”

***

There was rain deep in the night, when they were saying their long goodbyes.  Through the small hours and into the dawn Talion and Ratbag made the most of the time they had left to them, long before the sky began to lighten into morning.   

At sunrise, it was time.  They’d been talking together, speaking of quiet, inconsequential things when Talion started forward slightly, winced, and cursed.  He tried to pick up the threads of their conversation, but found it difficult to continue.  It seemed that something, or someone, was preventing him. 

That would be the Elf-Lord, freshly returned and wanting to make his presence felt.  

And with that, their time was up.  Talion and Ratbag made their way outside.  The Ranger hugged Ratbag tight.  Crushed him to his chest so hard, and for so long, Ratbag would’ve been surprised if he didn’t already know that at some point, Talion really was planning on letting go.  But at last he set him down, very reluctantly, and stepped back.  Then with a sudden movement he came in close again, and with his hands on the Orc’ shoulders, placed a soft, gentle kiss on his forehead. 

 _Kissing me for the last time_ , Ratbag thought, distractedly.  He had a vague sense of the Wraith-form of Celebrimbor, once again all present and correct in Talion in his usual, spectral fashion.  Ratbag wondered how his companion could tolerate it, but supposed that had to come with practice.  Even he, Ratbag could tell that the Elvish shade was at a fever pitch of impatience, almost vibrating with distaste.

They both ignored him.  Talion and Ratbag looked into one another’s eyes for a long moment.  Ratbag put his hands up and clasped the Ranger’s face. 

Talion’s eyes were wet.  “Be good to yourself, Orc,” he told him.

Ratbag lifted his chin and straightened his back as much as he was able.  “You too, Ranger,” Ratbag said.

And then Talion was swinging himself up and onto the back of his Caragor.  Buttercup sprang forwards immediately and began carrying him rapidly off down towards the village.  Talion wheeled her round, trotting in a wide circle at the bottom of the slope, just before the contours of the landscape swallowed him.  He knelt up a little, standing up across Buttercup’s back and raised his arm and waved to Ratbag, taking a last, long look at him.

Ratbag waved back.  Afterwards he stood for a long time, staring down the hill at the spot he’d last had sight of Talion.  There was rain on the wind that morning but the Orc didn’t notice it.  He was soaked to the skin by the time he turned and made his way back into the house.

And for a time, that was the last Ratbag heard of him.  No word came from the Black Gate.  There were ways and means of relaying a message, even in Mordor, but no word came.  But there seemed to be strange auguries: red-hued dragon-lights in the sky at night, not seen for a generation at latitudes so far south; long, sword-shaped ripples on the morning sea; deep tremors rumbling in the bowels of the Earth and a sense of disquiet on the evening breeze.  Flocks of birds that should have still been at their summer nesting-grounds, far away in the north flew back to Núrnen early, and a great shoal of deep sea-fish came leaping up pell-mell right onto the beach as if pursued by some frightful, unseen aquatic enemy, and stranded themselves on shore.  There was speculation among the fisherfolk of a great battle fought and old foes vanquished in the lands towards the west.  It was whispered that the Black Hand himself had fallen in battle, but none would speak openly to Ratbag of these things.

On the other hand, perhaps all these occurrences were normal and it was quite possible that Ratbag’s imagination was getting the better of him.  Yet still he procrastinated.  The world at large had not been kind to Ratbag, and he felt no great inclination to make his return.  But the little house was full of memories of the time he and Talion had shared there.  He didn’t want to leave, yet couldn’t bear to make his mind up to remain. 

So he procrastinated.  Once every other week or so he would visit the fishing village, trading with the fisher-folk for food and other things as necessary, using the contents of a basket of sundry items Talion had left him, artefacts and bunched herbs and all sorts of other bits and bobs and scraps of rubbish the Ranger had diligently collected over his time in Mordor.  

The supply of artefacts, like Ratbag’s time, was beginning to run out.  The Núrnen fisherfolk were still tolerating him, but given their past dealings with his kind the Orc could see that that tolerance couldn’t possibly last for long.

It was a blue-skied afternoon, an hour or two before sunset and Ratbag was making his way back from the village towards the fisherman’s cottage.  He was following the high-water mark along the sea shore when out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw - frolicking in and out of the surf-line, a large, ridge-backed creature, chasing wave-crests far away beyond the curve of the bay, off at the other end of the beach.  He thought he glimpsed it only for an instant - and then the image was lost in a haze of late afternoon sunlight and sea-spray and afterwards Ratbag couldn’t have said with any certainty _what_ he had seen any more.

On a mad impulse he ran a few steps, hectically forward.  “Buttercup!  Buttercup!” he called.  But the Orc’s voice was drowned by the noise of the waves and the rush and ebb of salt-water over sand and the Caragor - if it was a Caragor - was too far away to hear, or was otherwise deliberately choosing not to take notice of him.  If it even _was_ Buttercup and not some other Caragor entirely, she was still a very long way off.

Reluctantly Ratbag turned for home.  Slowly he climbed the steps and went up to the cottage, and all the time he hardly dared hope.  But when he was in the house he saw -

Talion’s swords and boots and were standing by the fireplace.  His cloak was hanging in its usual place, from a nail in the wall just inside the door and there were flowers: armfuls of Mordor’s strange, sweet-smelling blossoms everywhere, in jars set on the mantlepiece, on the kitchen table, and on the floor.

“Ratbag?” 

And best of all - better than anything, possibly else was that Talion himself was there.  The Orc’s companion was alive, and all in one piece and perhaps best of all at this moment was that he was waiting for Ratbag _right there_ , just in the other room. 

Ratbag’s heart leapt.

His Ranger had come back to him.

 

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Cohobbitation recently introduced me to 'Middle Earth: Shadow of Mordor' via various clips of YouTube footage....and this sordid piece of fanfiction was the result. I haven’t played the game but that doesn’t stop me from appreciating the diverse and wonderful array of ‘old school’ – by which I mean ‘pre-dating the 2012 film version of The Hobbit’ - Orcs and Uruks it has in it, in particular the beautifully-realized gem that is Ratbag, who in spite of the extremely unfavourable odds stacked against him, has single-handedly restored my faith in Orcish characters rendered entirely in the medium of CGI.


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